Coalition
by Saturn-Jupiter
Summary: Batman has been missing for 24 hours. He has been captured by a coalition of Arkham Inmates. The Justice League has precisely fourteen hours to decode his clues and find him. If they fail, he is going to meet the Joker's new friend: Mistah AK-47.
1. La Recherche Commence

Coalition

Chapter One: La recherche commence

'None but the brave deserves the fair' John Dryden

Waking up is one thing. Waking up and not remembering how you got to sleep is another. Waking up and remembering quite clearly what happened is another thing entirely. The latter was the category into which our unfortunate hero fell. As one may guess, he was not overjoyed at having to wake up, let alone having to wake up to what he did. There are about a million situations which he would regard as 'bad'. This was one of them.

And so followed the process of awakening. Hearing comes back first. Whispers wisped throughout the wide room, like water trickling down a rock face. They, in themselves, hid something sinister and venomous, as though every whisper's intent was to rip his heart from his chest, but they also hid other noises. Noises so drowned out that they were undetectable. A roar, distant but there, echoed dimly. Perhaps it were a car, perhaps a plane, perhaps any number of things that make a roaring noise.

Smell. The one thing any human may regret recognising upon waking up. Sweat, definite, sharp and overpowering, could be smelt, somehow making its way to his taste buds which recoiled in utter disgust. Then another, wet, damp, but withholding a scent far more dark than initially perceived: it struck then; sewer, swamp. Almost, but not quite, as distinctive as it's sweaty predecessor. The third smell, one that evoked immediate but not worrying concern, was that of iron. Iron and the squelching noises underfoot: blood.

The taste in his mouth turned bitter and vile after the seemingly eternal torment of sweat. It tasted like metal but it was liquid in texture. It was blood. Delicately, the large, powerful muscle tested the white daggers of the jaw: one was loose and a wisdom tooth at the top right was missing. Searching around his mouth a bit more, the missing tooth was recovered; an unpleasant discovery at best. This movement had not gone unnoticed. The whispers had ceased, there had been movement; the distinct noise of foot, trainer, shoe against wet, sticky blood.

The distant roar of something unidentifiable echoed. Straining against better Reason, the two eyes fluttered open. They danced delicately against Logic, prancing like beautiful, breakable butterflies. The two deep oceans of startling, piercing blue perforated the layer of darkness and the lids fell; transporting vision, once again, into a brief night of vivid nothingness. They opened again, struggling against intensely white light, in time to see something grab hold of the throat.

"-"

There had been an attempt to make noise but the pathetic attempt had been blocked. The throat from which the noise tried to escape was hoarse, dry and coated in blood. This throat was also, now, being grasped by a callously, uncaring glove. The glove kept tightening and our hero was trying so hard to make noise, so hard, but all sound was drowned out, leaving nothing but pain and frustration. His eyes opened suddenly and glared, glared with such force and intensity that the hand loosened, even if it were just for a second, it was a significant lessening of force.

"Let go." despite the hoarseness of his throat and the tight snake sneakily suffocating it, the command was loud, forceful and clear as day. The hand moved. He couldn't help but feel his heart rise a little, despite years of training he remained but a human: a human whose first and deepest desire was to live. This hope burned deep, buried by hundreds of layers and it lay beneath its constant companion: fear. This was, until his eyes scanned the room. Then, all of a sudden, the hope vanished, fear laughed wildly.

"Welcome to the land of the living," cackled the voice, "Bats."

***

The Justice League's headquarters was a glistening silver machine hovering high in the sky: to some a symbol of hope and protection; to others a very big and scary 'death ray'. It was one of the few occasions when all of the founding members – minus, of course, Batman – were gathered in the same place. Despite the media storm their gatherings usually caused, they met a lot less frequently than imagined. Mostly because most of the superheroes had their own cities, which they protected fiercely; that was why Batman was hardly ever seen at these meetings.

The Control Hub, as it had been dubbed by Flash, and Flash alone, was at the centre of the floating, over-sized satellite. The six members met there on the few occasions they were all gathered together. There was always someone sitting at the computer terminal, watching, on the off-chance that something might turn-up. Something usually did when there were less of them there. When all of them were there, though, it usually seemed silent for a long while.

Wonder Woman and Hawk Girl, naturally, sat next to each other. They were adamant in the belief that 'us girls gotta stick together', despite the quite obvious flirting going on within the group. Superman, directly opposite the pair, sat at the head of the table and was widely regarded as the leader of the group, despite there being no said leader. J'onn J'onzz sat at the computer terminal on this particular occasion, with the Green Lantern sitting at the table and Flash furiously failing in his attempts to get the coffee machine to work.

The group had long since resigned itself to Batman's frequent and cold non-appearances and they made a habit of being surprised whenever he _did _turn up. They couldn't blame him, of course. Each and every one of them dreaded the idea of having to take Gotham City on as a job. The nicer cities were bad enough. Then there was the balancing act he had to manage, one that had a lot more media coverage than others. After all, Batman was a billionaire by day, not that the members of the group saw that as necessarily a bad thing.

"What's his excuse this time?" asked Wonder Woman. There was a cautious silence that followed. Most members of the group had seen some sort of connection between the two, except maybe Flash, and were determined not to evoke the almighty wrath of the super-powered Amazonian.

"I haven't heard from him." replied Superman, determined to keep his hands clean of the entire situation. He got along with Batman, well as 'along' as they possibly could, but had little intention of defending him against Wonder Woman. Superman often doubted if he would defend _anyone _against Wonder Woman: she was scarier than Batman.

"I haven't either." said Green Lantern.

"He never bothers to contact _me_." stated Hawk Girl, pouting slightly.

"Has anyone heard from him?" asked J'onn, eavesdropping.

"WHY WON'T THIS MACHINE WORK?!?!?" screamed Flash, who everyone ignored as he violently shook the defenceless coffee machine who seconds later proceeded to reveal that it was not that defenceless and sprayed nuke-hot coffee at his face, "ARGH!!!"

"No." the group minus Flash – who was screaming in the background from the coffee that had been squirted at his face - said in unison.

"That is not like him." observed J'onn.

"No," said Superman, "It isn't."

Suddenly the computer terminal lit up in a rather Christmas-tree-like fashion and started ringing. This was something that had not happened before, so they all assumed Batman was involved. In fact, if they had learned anything from their contact with Batman, it was that anything they had not seen before probably involved him somewhere down the line. This theory had, as of yet, yet to be proven wrong. J'onn frowned at the terminal and pressed a button which had conveniently lit up. The ringing ceased.

"Hello?" asked the Martian Manhunter, "Who is this? How did you get this number?"

"This is the Justice League?" asked the man down the phone with a very English accent.

"Yes," replied J'onn, "Who is this?"

"Wait, J'onn," requested Superman, "I think I recognise that voice. Alfred?"

"Master Kent?" asked Alfred, a sigh of relief came over the line, "Thank goodness, I thought I had the wrong number then."

"Why're you ringing?" asked Superman.

"Delivering an excuse from Bruce?" added Wonder Woman with a hint of aggression.

"Only if a day's absence qualifies." replied Alfred.

"What?" asked the entire League in unison, even Flash, who had finished running cold water on his face.

"You haven't heard from him?" asked Alfred, "I was afraid you'd say that."

"What's going on Alfred?" asked Superman.

"I think you should come to the Batcave. Immediately."

"What's wrong, Alfred?"

"Master Wayne has been missing for twenty-four hours. He left on a call over a day ago. The call apparently involved several of the most dangerous inmates from Arkham. I contacted the police earlier and they haven't heard anything. I found a message telling me to contact you if he were not back within exactly twenty four hours."

"We'll be there soon." replied Superman.

"Thank you. The Cave will be open," explained Alfred, "I'll put the kettle on."

With the line cut, concerned glances were immediately passed from one hero to the next. Batman _never _needed help. Batman _never_ asked for help. Batman _never _lost. It was a worrying and demoralising development to the long evening that appeared as though it would just get longer.

***

"I don't think Bats has ever been _this_ happy to see us!" exclaimed the Joker.

Batman was not happy with the situation. It could be worse though. Could be a_ lot _worse. Though, always being the pessimist, he strongly suspected that it would do just that. It was a relatively small room by appearances but, in actuality, it must have been, at the very least, ten feet by six. It was also sound-proofed. There was an open door that led into another room. Within the second room was a window looking into the room which he occupied and a table with several packs of cards. He knew where he was.

"Eh, Batty, old buddy?" asked the Joker, getting uncomfortably close to the Bat with the clipped wings. It was a move he regretted as a lightning-fast head-but greeted him. Taking several steps back, and rubbing his head, he responded with a glare capable of great and terrible deeds. It was odd, Batman observed, it was not the response he was expecting, "HARLEY!"

Batman resisted the urge to roll his eyes. And it was a very powerful urge.

Harley entered the room in her unusually happy and cheerful attire. She entered through the manner of skipping and proceeded to stand beside 'Mistah Jay' like a lost puppy. It was pathetic, in a dark and twisted kind of way. The appearance of Harley, in itself, did not worry Batman all that much. It was the very large group of unfortunately familiar faces behind her that worried him. Though, he wasn't all that worried and it certainly didn't show. Plans and ideas were already formulating in his mind. He could get out of this, and if he couldn't, there was always Plan Z.

"Yeah?" asked Harley.

"Explain the rules of this little game to our deluded friend," requested the Joker before snapping, "AND QUICKLY!"

The Joker and the rest of the group left the room and crowded around the glass pane, observing with the intensity of vultures, Batman's reactions to the knowledge Harley was about to provide him with. They knew he was tied down to the chair with chains of iron but they had all known him to escape from chains before. They knew he had just woken up but they had all seen him take out ten men with ease after waking up from unconsciousness. They knew him but watched in morbid fascination as though he were a toy of many, and never-ending tricks despite the distinct disappearance of his utility belt, which had been left at the scene of his kidnapping. They weren't quite _that _stupid.

"Heya, B-Man!" began Harley who was met with a Death Glare, "Now, it's very simple. Every hour, Mistah Jay's gonna send in one of our new friends. They're gonna mess you up a bit, come out and the next guy goes in. Simple as that. If you're still alive in fourteen hours, you get to meet J-Man's new friend: Mistah AK-47," three quick tap-slaps on Batman's cheek were received with the Bloody Death Glare, "Try not to kick the can, kay?"

With that, she was gone, leaving Batman to try and come up with a plan that would help him survive fourteen hours of torture without being pumped full of lead at the end. He sighed slightly, but invisibly, _It could still be worse._

***

Alfred was walking down the stairs with a tray when the Justice League arrived. They admired his timing and he was, secretly, very happy about being admired by a group of super-powered, world-famous legends. He led them over to the terminal of the Batcave and activated it. He proceeded to activate a pre-recorded message and then began making the tea. The group seemed a bit on edge by Batman's disappearance and certainly all seemed concerned.

"A pre-recorded message?" asked Flash, "Did he _know _this was going to happen?"

"This _is _Bruce we're talking about," replied Green Lantern, "It wouldn't surprise me."

"Ssh!" snapped Hawk Girl, "It's starting."

"_If you're watching this message, then something's happened and I __**might **__need your help getting out of it. I got a call five minutes ago. It reeks of the Joker. I think he might have succeeded in forming a coalition, if he has, and twenty four hours has passed without my appearance, they've captured me. They won't have killed me. That's not their style. They'll have taken me to a location they think is safe. I've complied a list of locations they might use but this list has been split into clues so that you can keep an eye on Gotham whilst you're trying to find me."_

"And he said he didn't know how to work people to death." retorted Flash.

"SSH!"

"_There are very specific routes for each of you. I suggest you keep to them. Alfred should be able to provide you with the map. Another thing I should mention, I'd say there are up to sixteen inmates who might have agreed to go along with this coalition. Of those sixteen, two will defect or leave. Keep an eye out for them and any other Arkham inmate you find. They may be criminals but the chances are, they're plotting to break up the coalition themselves. A final note: if you don't find me within fourteen hours, assume the worst."_

A long silence followed.

"I'd forgotten how cheerful he was."

***

"Where are you two going?" asked the Joker, "The fun's just starting!" turning his attention to Zsasz he explained, "Have fun, Zsasz-y boy!"

"I have better things to be doing," explained Catwoman, "I heard there's recently been a shipment of Egyptian artefacts, artefacts including several priceless statues of Bastet."

"Oh, party-pooper," snapped the Joker, "And you? What's your excuse? Gotta go to the loo?"

"No," replied the Riddler, "I feel it unnecessary and pointless to lower myself to levels of such degradation."

"Okay big-words," said the Joker, "But, don't tell anyone about this little," he motioned around the room, "Charade."

"Wouldn't dream of it." replied Catwoman.

The two walked out of the building and turned to each other.

"Sabotage?" asked Catwoman.

"Oh, yes." replied the Riddler.

**A/N: Will try to update as often as possible but can't guarantee a weekly update. Possibly fortnightly. Will update more regularly than once a month though.**


	2. Das Messer

Coalition

Chapter Two: Das Messer

'The best lack all conviction; while the worst

are full of passionate intensity' William Butler Yeats

He enters the room. No. _It _enters the room. No. He enters the room. De-humanising them is the last thing he should be doing. Batman examined Zsasz as he entered the room. So many times, he had forced himself to believe that the man was a psychopath, not an inhuman monster. There was a story, a background, something had happened in the man's life to alter his mind so drastically. That was what Batman had to tell himself. That's what he had to tell himself to stop him killing the killer. Batman hated _them_ but hated the idea of _becoming _them even more.

New scars. The still warm ashes burned deep within the crevices of Batman's heart and it took little more than those _scars _to stir the embers into an inferno of unbelievable proportions. A whole tally of five. Carved deep into the skin, leaving a deep, permanent and horrific symbol of death and insanity. Nearly all of the scars on the psychopath's body were made in that way. Every life the man took, every life he stole, was marked by another line on his seemingly weak and fragile body. The tally was now too high for Batman to want to know, but he forced himself to know. One hundred and twenty two to date. One hundred and twenty one people he had failed to save.

The knife in his hand is simple. It is usually whatever knife is handy at the time, he has never seemed to favour a specific type. This time it's a butcher's knife. A large unwieldy cleaver whose edge is so sharp it cuts through the air leaving a trail of warmth behind it. The handle fits perfectly within the madman's palms, as though it has and always will, belong in those hands. The glistening metal of the blade shimmers in the intense light of the room in which the Bat with clipped wings sat. The light bounced off the knife into the Bat's eyes and thus, the insanity began.

"-" exclaimed the oppressive, terrifying creature clad in black as the blade sliced cleanly through the armour. Batman had expected the blow but he wasn't expecting it to be so fast, so aggressive, so soon. He'd imagined that Zsasz would play with him first but, as memory was quick to remind him, Zsasz had never been that way inclined.

A sick smile contorted the face of Zsasz. It was the ever so slight widening of the Bat's eyes, the sudden and badly concealed intake of breath, that had alerted Zsasz to the success of his blow. Everyone had hurt Batman before, there was barely a villain that hadn't, but for him to be so _helpless _was certainly uncommon. The smile was one of victory, the Bat was defenceless, finally fully becoming a bat. He pulled the knife away and watched with morbid fascination as the hot, warm droplet of blood slid slowly and delicately from the very edge of the knife.

"That armour can only protect you so much Batty-boy!" exclaimed a voice through a loudspeaker which Batman was ashamed to admit he had not seen, "None of us knew it had weak points. Learning curve for us all, eh?"

The temptation to growl, to sigh, to glower with discontent was almost enough to overwhelm the sudden sting that came from the wound. Almost enough, but not quite enough. Like a paper cut, knife wounds aren't always felt straight away, particularly if they are a slice or scratch rather than a stab; instead, they are invisible to the body for a few seconds until a sharp and penetrating pain fires through the body as though on fire. Cutting yourself shaving achieves a similar result, with a startlingly painful feeling arriving just a short while after the blood has begun to seep from the wound and then, there is always so much blood. There is always more blood than you imagine you could even have. Eight pints. A single cut forces you to mentally half that number.

"The zombies can't help you here…" he did not pause but twiddled the knife around his hands as though it were nothing more than a toy, "They wouldn't help you anyway… you're just like us… you have blood on your hands too… you're not answering back… why are you so quiet? No words of wisdom…. words of denial?"

Batman looked to the glass, determined to ignore Zsasz. Once he got into your mind, the game became a whole lot more dangerous. He'd let it happen once. Never again. His words slithered under people's skins like a hideously clever snake and despite his slim, weak frame, he was as athletic and powerful as any athlete. He controlled his weapon with astounding grace and accuracy but let him under your skin, into your head, and you're one step away from losing.

The knife flew towards his stomach. Secretly, Bruce blessed with all his heart the never-ending genius of Lucius Fox. Without him, that could have been a deadly blow. However, this gratefulness was replaced by three, intertwining shots of pain as beads of blood seeped through the black suit where the blade had battered it open. The words from Zsasz's mouth continued to flow, each trying to infect his open wounds with their vicious venoms. Batman's eyes closed, his eyebrows underneath his mask furrowing as though it would relieve the pain. He may have a high pain threshold but even the Man of Steel could feel the stinging pain of a paper cut.

***

Superman and Batman had never been the best of friends. They had polarised personalities and they found it extremely easy to argue about how to handle things. Superman was widely considered to be the boy scout, the by-the-book bloke and so the police, people and government loved him. Batman was another matter. Batman was a vigilante, he was rough and aggressive, threatening and intimidating, he broke the rules and so, for a long time, he had been a fugitive, hunted down. Now, despite the official verdict still being against him, Gotham had come to a consensus. They needed him so they would put up with him.

Clark Kent had always been able to understand, to the deepest level anyone without some form of telepathy could, Bruce. He'd lost his parents in the most terrible fashion imaginable and the fact he turned out the way he did was still an impressive feat that further added to the nature versus nurture argument, however, he was, in Superman's personal opinion, still an arse. His personality was geared towards teamwork in much the same way a wasp can bear being hit without retaliation. There were many things that he disliked about Batman's personality. Many, many things.

"Found anything yet, Supes?" asked Flash, his voice burning with impatience and, perhaps, concern.

Placing a hand on the radio, Superman replied, "No. You?"

"Not yet," replied Flash, "But the guards here are nice enough. Still can't see why _I _got dumped on Arkham Island."

"There's probably method in Master Bruce's madness," interrupted the very-English Alfred, who was overseeing radio communication back in the safety of the Cave, a sort of Command Control, "The police still haven't found anything."

"Weird," said Flash, "You'd think a bunch of psychotic super-villains would leave some sort of trail."

"Not necessarily," explained Alfred, "If the Riddler is with them, it may be impossible to trace them."

"That's not very reassuring, Alfie." commented Flash.

"I can't believe he thought he could do this without us," snapped Superman, "What was he thinking?"

"I wonder if he does think at all," replied Flash, "Maybe he's fooling us all into thinking he's thinking when really, he's just doing it all on the ball."

"He has his reasons." explained Alfred.

"Perhaps you'd care to explain them sometime." suggested Flash.

"Certainly." agreed Alfred with a mysterious, unreadable tone in his voice before leaving the conversation to contact the police once again.

"D'you think he'll be alright, Supes?" asked Flash.

"My heart says 'no!'," replied Superman solemnly, "But my mind says 'yes, he'll probably be standing there, arms crossed, asking what took us so long'."

"Still," said Flash exhibiting more insight than he normally did, "You're worried aren't you?"

There was a pause, "Yes."

"So am I."

"I know."

The conversation ended there as Flash was called away by the guards who were bored and had made a bet. A very humorous bet that amused Flash for little more than ten seconds. Around the island in less than a minute? Hardly a challenge. Superman sighed slightly, at least Flash was having a good time. A gut feeling told him things were not going quite so well for Batman.

***

Forgetting himself, he greedily gulped down a gallon of gas. The oxygen tasted like heaven to his deprived, desperate body. He had begun to pant, through no intention of his own, and Zsasz's words were beginning to spread like a cancer in his mind. A little longer, he could last just a while longer. Shame filled his soul: he had had training to ignore pain, to work through pain, for the pain to mean nothing to his body. A feeling of laziness filled him, had he grown lazy, was that the reason? No. He knew. The Batman was human. He tried to ignore that fact but it always came back.

"…Swooping from above… like some almighty angel… you want to kill, don't you… I wonder what's stopping you… resolve? Yeah, something stupid like that…"

The pain from the slice of a knife was something intense. It was sharp and sudden but chose to strike only after the thought of safety had entered your head. He didn't know how many cuts he had but was aware that some had clotted and begun to form scabs, whereas others continued to profusely bleed from where the knife had penetrated and perforated the skin. The armour held up well, protecting his neck and chest from all but a jolt of deeply instinctive fear, not that it showed on his face or in his eyes.

"… I can see it in your eyes… I forget sometimes that you're a zombie too… just like all the others… I can kill you… you can die… you feel pain…"

The time flew by. There was a pattern. As though the knife were an actor that would only obey the very specific cues it had been provided with. It only hit the same place twice after the surrounding area had been slashed six times. The phrase 'method in madness' had some truth to it, even to those more unpredictable than others. The knife flew by and slashed an already open wound on his knee. Pain shot immediately throughout his body when a cut was aggravated during its healing process. There was at least a period of painlessness when new cuts where administered before the shout of the nervous system became defeaning.

"My tally has been off by one ever since… ever since _you_ stopped me saving that… I can't even remember if it was a man or a woman… English… I remember that…"

Batman glowered with deathly intensity. Hatred flowed from him in waves as though he were an exploding volcano whose nuclear-hot flow of lava were scalding the very air it touched. Then, suddenly, the waves vanished. Only briefly, only for a second, but they had been irrevocably interrupted, and they had been interrupted by surprise. Something profound and powerful had grasped the stem and held it.

Zsasz increased the pressure on Batman's neck and lowered himself so that the two saw eye-to-eye, even if for the shortest periods of time. A head but. Short, sudden, sharp. Zsasz crumpled to the floor unconscious before words could escape his mouth. Batman allowed himself a small, invisible smirk of victory before returning to the emotionless state his lips normally held. Batman glared at the unfortunate goon who came into collect the poor soul.

"Note to self: restrain head."

***

"Anything yet?" asked Superman, who soared high in the sky above Gotham city.

"Nothing, Master Kent," replied Alfred, "Have you found any of Sir's clues yet?"

"No."

"Perhaps it was unwise to alter the courses Master Bruce had mapped out for you."

"No, we'll cover more ground this way," replied Superman, "Besides, if J'onn has a shorter one, he can take it slower and try and find Batman telepathically."

"Still," reprimanded Alfred, "There is usually method to his madness."

Superman allowed himself a sigh as he flew above the city. Suddenly, something caught his eye. He swooped down immediately. Finding himself sandwiched between to buildings in an alley. It was a wall lathered in graffiti but something seemed strange about it. He caught it out of the corner of his eye and had almost missed it. He placed a hand on it and tried to find out which one was the most recent, the one Batman had made.

"Something wrong, Master Kent?" asked Alfred.

"I've found something."

"A clue?" buzzed Alfred hopefully.

"I think so," explained Superman, "It's a graffiti wall but something's off."

"What can you see? Perhaps I can help."

"Unless the vandals are particularly cultured, I think it was Bruce's handiwork." explained Superman, "There's a quote written in graffiti style, says, 'it is the destiny of man to move forwards'."

"Anything else?"

"No. That's it."

"I have it recorded, I'll carry on thinking about it," advised Alfred, "You should continue along the path and see if you can find any more."

"Right," said Superman, adding, "Don't worry, we'll find him."

"I know." he lied.

***

"Well that was boring." stated the Scarecrow.

"Twenty minutes left of his hour, Mistah J," explained Harley, "What'cha wanna do?"

"Weeell," stressed the Joker, "We _could _give it to him so he can rest, buuut we could just send in Big Ol' Green now! Off ya go!" he said, slapping the terrifyingly huge creature on the back.

Killer Croc entered the room. Batman was _not _impressed.

**A/N: Thanks to people who are reading this, and thanks to **_**kzurik **_**for story-alerting.**


	3. Un Monstre Apparaît

Coalition

Chapter Three: Un monstre apparaît

'Who overcomes by force, hath overcome but half his foe.' John Milton

Hawk Girl's wings pounded the dark, cold skies of Gotham. Her hand clutched a map and her fingers had turned a numb, threatening blue from the freezing temperature. Her eyes were as sharp as her name suggested but she had found little evidence of the so-called clues Batman had left the league. She knew very little of him, and the rest of the founding members shared her frustration at this, yet, another thing she shared with the other League members, she had grown to trust him.

How one can go about trusting a man dressed up as a bat who is perhaps the most secretive person in existence, would have remained an unsolvable mystery were it not for the man's personality and unwavering dedication to his cause. Very few of the League members had seen him take a hit, and those who did were reminded quite suddenly that the man indeed just that. Hawk Girl couldn't remember if she had been one of those privileged members and so he remained, in her eyes, an invincible creature.

"Found anything?" asked Alfred. No one had ever known him this concerned. They knew of his loyalty and father-like relationship with Batman but he had always withheld his emotions, achieving a somewhat aloof state and seeing that state crumble apart was not aiding the morale of the search party. He occasionally gave reasons for his audible concern, "Commissioner Gordon can't hide the story from the media much longer."

"No." replied Hawk Girl whose answer was repeated by the other League members, as the radios which linked them remained open at all times. Hearing the conversation forty minutes earlier between Superman and Alfred had raised hopes before shortly shooting them all down.

"Got any further with that quote?" asked Superman, a strange tone in his voice. Hawk Girl could not decipher it. There was worry in his voice but it was impossible to put a reason to the worry. After all, _he _had been the one telling everyone that Batman would be fine, that he could take care of himself.

"Yes," said Alfred with a significantly noticeable tone of hope, "It was quoted in one of the emails Master Bruce received from the Research and Development Department at the company."

"Research and Development?" asked Superman, thinking out loud, "That's where he was trying to send me!"

"I'll check out the building: I'm the closest," stated Hawk Girl, "It's the big tower, right?"

"Indeed, Miss Hawk Girl," replied Alfred, "I'll lower the building's security. You should be able to enter Lucius Fox's office on the very top floor and access Master Wayne's account from there. I'll have the computer ready for you."

"Right." acknowledged Hawk Girl, swooping suddenly. Her body arced and her wings folded as she dove towards the building, streamlined as an eagle darting towards its prey.

"You can do all of that from the computer in the Cave?" asked the Green Lantern. Hawk Girl repressed a smile that edged onto her face. Always the curious one.

"Yes," replied Alfred, "Master Wayne kindly linked all his systems, including the Tower, with the terminal here. Bloody convenient."

There was a pause.

"You must pardon me for a while," excused Alfred, moving away from the terminal, "I think I need a cup of tea."

The group heard the door to the cave close.

"D'you think he's alright?" asked Flash.

"I'm sure he's been through worse." assured Green Lantern.

"Well, the best solution at the moment is finding Bruce," commanded Superman, "We've lost forty minutes already."

There was a silent agreement and the radio remained calm for the following half an hour.

***

The slim, invisible wounds that lay beneath slight scratches in his armour continued to bleed. The few that had begun the challenge of starting to heal themselves had been irrevocably prevented from doing so by a sudden and uncontrollable surge in blood pressure. A reptilian man with an inhuman height could do that to anybody and Batman hadn't as much control over his heart as he'd have liked; particularly considering the frequent surges of pain he had experienced two minutes earlier.

"Well, well, Batsy," slurred Killer Croc whose teeth slotted amongst each other like neatly arranged daggers of ivory. A small layer of saliva coated his lower lip and his mouth was curved into a horizontal quarter moon as he continued to speak, "Not so big now are you?"

_No, _retorted Batman mentally, _I'm tied down to a chair. Everyone knows you gain two feet in height when you're sitting down._

"Not so clever either," observed Croc who relieved his lower lip of its thick watery layer through no intention of his own, firing it through the air towards Batman who proceeded to glare with inhuman intensity at the flecks on visible to himself on his cowl, "It's sad the Joker won't let me release you. Guess I'll just have to hope you can do it yourself."

Batman glared. Croc was perhaps the one member of the group he _could _have trusted to be stupid enough to allow himself to be manipulated into breaking the chains. Unfortunately, it appeared as though the Joker was one step ahead and had found some way of insuring the coalition against any potential stupidity on the individual's behalf. Batman, pessimistically, allowed himself to observe, _So much for Plan F._

There were no more words. Croc had never been much of a talker anyway. Batman had discovered that he'd picked up a larger vocabulary after hanging around with the Riddler but it hadn't appeared to increase his intelligence to any higher level. However, something gave the man clad in black the feeling that intelligence would not be the focus of this match. Croc charged forward. His weight was enormous, his speed was impossible, the momentum was incredible.

Pushing all of his strength into his legs, Batman propelled himself to the side, narrowly avoiding the full brunt of the charge. Croc was unable to stop his own momentum and collided with the soft padding that coated the room. The only damage done was to Batman who had broken the wooden chair as a result of his epic leap. The tiniest brush from Croc had been enough to damage the chair and the fall that proceeded, combined with Batman's own weight, shattered the chair beneath him. He forced himself to his feet.

All the wounds on his legs reopened in a gush of sticky red fluid. He grunted slightly. His arms were still chained together. The metal was some form of iron; it stank heavily from the few droplets of blood that had flowed onto it from injuries further up his arm. The chains were heavy and strong, brute force failed to even place a strain on the links of the dull silver snake. These cuffs held his hands behind his back, placing uncomfortable strain on the muscles of his upper arm. Mentally, he assessed, _The chain of the cuffs is too short. I can't bring my arms forward without dislocating something and with __**him **__in the room, I don't want to risk it. Guess I'll have to try something else._

Croc recovered quickly and charged again. His sickly green scaly skin shimmered in the dull, sterile white light that flooded from the metre long light bulb in the ceiling. He moved as fast as his namesake, lashing out seconds after the first attack. His charge was ever so slightly hunched, as though attempting to tackle some unseen target out of the way. Batman refused his face the smile it yearned for. At the height Croc had lowered himself to, the move Batman had in mind was possible.

Three feet away, Batman could smell the sewer that emanated from the 'man's' mouth. Two feet away and as much strength as Batman could muster was placed, once more, into his almighty leg muscles. One foot away and Croc's mouth opened. It was vast and the deep ocean that lay within it hid a gigantic whale which surfaced with anticipation as its eyes scanned the white jagged cliff-faces surrounding it. Batman leapt.

From a vertical jump, his body turned horizontal once above Killer Croc. As his monstrously powerful body went back to back with the tall, bulky frame of the human-crocodile, his hands were caught in the mouth of the reptile, pulling his entire body back. His arms screamed out in discontent, as did the poor creature whose mouth was now home to a thick chain of iron, taunted by two soft, fleshy hands either side. Batman's body crashed into Croc's shoulders as Croc snapped the chain, Batman then slid down the beast's back and rolled, turning to face his would-be-killer.

"Damn!" shouted a voice through the speakers.

"Told you we should have gone for titanium." stated another.

"Oh shut up," snapped the first, "We'll still have a good show."

Croc spat out a handful of white daggers. He would not be happy. Neither would his dentist, "I'm gonna kill you!"

Batman leapt and rolled, doggedly dodging the third charge. He landed amongst the broken chair. He carefully weighed up the situation. He had cuffs around his wrists. The gauntlets on his forearms should prevent damage to skin. He had two cuffs on his ankles – they had been connected to the wooden chair but upon the chair's demise, the second cuff simply hung limply from the other end of the chain – and though they would weigh him down, slow him down, his boots would protect his ankles from damage. Then there was the problem of Killer Croc. Batman picked up a stick.

"He's gonna fight Croc with a stick?!" laughed a hideous voice.

"This I gotta see!" exclaimed another.

"Who wants a bet?" asked yet another.

"Desperate in there, eh, Batsy?" asked the first, "What's that, Batstick?"

Batman resisted the urge to roll his eyes but failed.

***

"I'm in." stated Hawk Girl. She glanced around the office. It was well-kept, tidy and organised. Though, in the darkness, it was impossible to tell the true condition of the room. There was light beaming intently from a silently whirring desktop, whose true power lay elsewhere, hidden beneath the desk. She moved towards it and sat in the chair that lay before the desk, the composition of which she was unable to identify.

"Excellent work, Miss Hawk Girl," congratulated Alfred with a hint more enthusiasm and emotion than he had intended, "I've highlighted the relevant email and all of the other emails sent to and from that address. There may be another clue there that I was unable to find."

"Right," she said, her eyes scanning the computer with such an interrogative nature that the machine itself seemed to speed up out of fear, "Anyone else found anything yet?"

"Nope," was the consensual reply with only Flash adding, "But the guards are really friendly. Who'd have guessed they worked in a nuthouse."

Her eyes scanned through every highlighted email. Each one seemed to contain a phrase, quote or figure of speech that seemed irrelevant and out of place. Any one of them, if not all of them, could be the next clue. Feeling ever so slightly frustrated by Batman's non-sensual riddles, Hawk Girl returned her attention to the email with the quote Superman found. The reply would be the most logical place to look for a succeeding clue.

_Dear Mr Smith,_

_I can assure you that the funding given to the Research and Development Department is not being cut. _

_The new budget has simply been designed in such a way as to assure that the Department move away from the armament programme seen before Mr Wayne's return. Mr Wayne has encouraged the stockholders and I to lower the spending on arms research year by year until the budget for that particular area could be moved into other areas of research._

_I trust you received a copy of the budget, enclosed with which was your transferral memo, indicating that you had been transferred to another research area with similar, but less controversial, aims. You and your entire team have been moved into that research area and your budget has not been cut from the numbers you would have seen at your previous station._

_-_

"BZZZ! SCREECH!"

Hawk Girl doubled over and grasped her head as though it were a delicate bomb that would explode if dropped. Pain shot through her ears as the incessant cacophony of noise rang out from the radio receivers. The groans of her fellow colleagues could be heard as a dull drone beneath the high, rhythmic wailing of the radios. She steadied herself, determined to prevent her wings from damaging the office, and awaited the moment when the noise would cease.

"Ugh!" grunted none of the radio operators.

"Hahaha!" wailed a clown, "Got a splinter, Batsy?"

"Ngh!" grunted the first voice once more, this one seeming to be a bit more determined.

"Stand still!" roared a monster.

"Get 'im, Croc!" shouted an unfamiliar yet resounding voice.

"This is ridiculous," stated another, "He's not even in pain."

"Not in pain?" asked an equally academic voice, "He has over one hundred slashes and he has been thrown into that door at _least _twice."

"Either way," retorted the unfamiliar, "He better last until I get him."

"I don't think Croc intends to let him."

"RRRAARRH!"

"ARGH!" cried Batman.

"BZZZ! SCREECH!"

A long silence followed. Hawk Girl, who had steadied herself by grasping the desk with a death grip, found her hands slipping away from the table. Her wings lowered, as though sensing her sadness. Her eyes glazed over with a dull sense of lost hope and deep concern. Her entire body screamed at her to beat the almighty bastards to a bloody pulp but she could not find them. She was powerless to help Batman. She found her mind placing Green Lantern in the very same situation and the fire inside burned brighter, yelling at her with an inhuman intensity. Yet, the grip on her mace remained the same.

"What was that?" asked Flash, his voice audibly shaken.

"Uh…" began Alfred who paused to collect himself before continuing, "Master Bruce placed a radio in the ear of his cowl. If it was damaged, it would have struggled to work. If he's inside a building, it may have struggled to find a signal."

"Can he hear us?" asked Wonder Woman.

"I doubt it," replied Superman, "Even if he could, he wouldn't answer."

A silence followed and Hawk Girl left the office. Alfred returned the Tower to the state it had been in before his interference. As Hawk Girl had left in a dazed anxiousness, she had failed to notice that at the end of the email she had been reading, a symbol hid beneath the last few lines of the text. A symbol that she would have recognised if she were the member of the League whom Batman had assigned the Tower as a point on their map. A symbol of a bat.

***

"Who to send in next?" asked Joker rhetorically.

"He's physically exhausted, some mental bombardment seems appropriate." declared one of the few academics of the group.

"No," snapped the polarised opposite of that particular group, "Another physical onslaught will have him begging for mercy."

"Whilst I disagree with the outcome, another beating won't kill him," stated another, "Unfortunately."

"I can have him weeping." snapped yet another.

"Oh, don't be so melodramatic," retorted the Joker, "Everyone knows Bats can't cry."

"I'd be amazed if he even had tear ducts." agreed the one to reply to the Joker's rhetorical question.

"ARGH!" screamed the muffled black mass through the glass. The debating group turned their attention to the darkness and let the argument lie beneath their interests for a few moments.

Batman's eyes shot up. With the speed of a demon, they glanced at the prying eyes and back towards the aggressor. His body was beginning to lag as though it were a computer being forced to do too many things at once. The more he focused his strength, the more he noticed there was less of it. That rapid and progressive depleting of energy was doing the Bat no good as the Croc licked its cracked, greenish lips. The situation needed to end. Soon.

"Why don't you just give up?" asked Croc whose question was primarily mocking but hid beneath it a genuine layer of curiosity, a genuine desire to know why the enemy he kept knocking to the floor kept getting back up and retaliating.

Batman was too tired to reply. Even if he did, no one would remember it regardless of how stunningly philosophical or witty it may be. Killer Croc charged, enraged by the silence his query received. Batman held his ground, silencing the instincts screaming at him to dodge and roll out of the way. The closer the reptilian got, the more detail Batman's keen eyes took in.

Some of the scales were damaged, seemingly infected by some hideous white fluff, others were ripped or torn, bleeding slightly. Then there were the more recent injuries. Splinters hung on for dear life between the rock face of Croc's skin. The splinters were different shades and varying sizes as the wooden legs from which they had come from had been frequently discarded due to irrevocable damage as a result of Killer Croc's ferocious attacks.

There was a distinctly sickening pre-emptive smile of victory appearing on the face of the man-crocodile as he charged within inches of his none-moving prey. The sharp, white daggers lined up beside each other in the perfect symmetry of a moonstone chorus. The smile was the mistake of an amateur. Batman, forcing the majority of the rapidly decreasing muscle strength in his body into his right arm, slammed the wooden leg into the centre of Killer Croc's head before leaping over him and rolling ungracefully into the wall.

The momentum, caused by Killer Croc's awesome speed and weight, collided with Batman's simplistic weapon and knocked the Croc unconscious on contact, leaving the dead-weight body to collide with the softly padded wall. Batman panted and struggled to his feet, watching eagerly as Killer Croc was dragged from the room, only to be replaced with the bane of Batman's life. Bane.

**A/N: Thanks to everyone who's favourited, story-alerted and author-alerted. Special thanks to **_**Kyer, invisiblehand **_**and **_**Night Monkey **_**for reviewing. Hope this one was as good as the others!**


	4. Die Macht

Coalition

Chapter Four: Die Macht

'Obedience

Bane of all genius, virtue, freedom, truth

makes slaves of men and of the human frame

A mechanised automation' Percy Bysshe Shelley

The guards were nice enough. Surprisingly. They knew how to have a good time and yet none of them ever took the piss out of the inmates. _Must be fear or something, I guess, _he observed. Flash had settled in quickly, the island was far larger than he had ever imagined it to be. He had heard many, many stories about the size of the island but very little could prepare him for the actual thing.

The island used to be an area of Gotham but as the population of the criminally insane increased exponentially, so did Arkham Asylum. There wasn't much of an argument to prevent the eviction of residents: it was either them or madmen running loose in the streets of Gotham. It was a move that was met with international disagreement but Gotham didn't really care; the international community did not fully understand just how dangerous the insane of the city were.

The island itself was split into three significant sections: Arkham, Arkham East and Arkham West. Each area had two or so buildings of significance that held all the authority of the Gothic era within its old and confrontational architecture. It was within the central section that Flash was mostly situated. He dove from one side to the other occasionally to check up on the news but there was very little happening and so very little to protect the coffee machines from his violent wrath.

"Those machines don't like you." observed a plump, middle-aged security guard whose name was Tom.

"You should see the one back at the Watchtower," explained Flash, "Sprayed nuke-hot coffee in my face. _Twice_."

"Hahaha!" laughed a thinner, younger guard who had introduced himself as Ed, "Guess they _really _don't like you!"

"Have you ever tried tea?" asked a young, 'ginger' English student, "Has higher levels of caffeine than coffee."

"You're kidding me?" asked Flash, refusing to believe that he had been fighting coffee machines half his life when there was a more pacifistic beverage that would have the desired effect in larger quantities than coffee.

"Yes," replied the English doctor whose name was Liz, "But it does taste better."

"Why're you over here anyway?" asked Flash, unable to restrain his curiosity, or his flirting nerve, anymore, "Gotham's hardly a Caribbean getaway."

"Gap year," replied Liz, "I'm training to be a psychologist. Figured Arkham Asylum would be the best way to pick up experience."

"Got way more than you expected then, eh?" asked Tom, leaning back in his chair.

"Yeah," she replied, "Wasn't expecting a break-out on my first day."

"Happens a lot," explained Ed, "Can't get the funding."

A silence fell on the small group. They had been crowded into a small room whose dimensions were of such insignificant proportions that the Flash didn't even bother to consider thinking about them. There was a massive terminal, which took up the entire wall of the most eastern side. Above the terminal were hundreds of miniscule televisions which each relayed footage from the cameras situated around Arkham. The tiny tellies relayed in particular images in the, now mostly empty, maximum security cells.

"What're _you _doing here?" asked Liz, whose startling blue eyes pierced Flash's own, "I thought you'd be off saving some baby in a flat-fire."

"No stereotypes in England?" asked Ed, chuckling slightly at his own political jab.

"So?" asked Liz, ignoring Ed.

"Bats sent me here." stated Flash, forgetting that no one knew of Batman's predicament other than Commissioner Gordon, Alfred and the Justice League.

"Bats?" asked Liz, unaware of the Batman's unfortunately commonly-used nickname, "Bats sent you over here?"

"The Batman," explained Tom, "The more insane inmates abbreviate his name to Bats, the Bat or B-man."

"Why would _he _send _you_ here?" asked Liz.

"He's scary, I'm not," explained Flash, "Besides, I'm the fastest man alive, an island this big is no problem for me to cover. He clearly trusts in my abilities to stop anymore inmates breaking out."

"Then why were you so miserable when you arrived?" asked Tom, wittily.

"I'm gonna get a coffee." stated Flash before walking out of the room, completely forgetting that tea would have been a safer and less hot option.

***

"You have to hand it to 'im boys and gals," began the Joker callously, garish in his purple suit, "He can dodge."

"_You didn't fight this well last time," snapped Bane who landed a ferocious two handed blow onto Batman's broad back, firing him into the floor and toward the shattered shards of the sandy-brown chair, "What changed?"_

"He didn't dodge that one." observed the Scarecrow simply.

"He could have." stated another, from whose mouth echoed a feminine voice.

"Could have, should have, would have," retorted the Joker, "Fact is, Bats never has any 'could haves', 'should haves' or 'would haves'. He's getting tired."

"_Well?" roared Bane, whose massive and inconceivable bulk blocked out all of the light from Batman's vision. The Bat was too busy looking up, expecting a punch or assault from the arms. He had not been expecting Bane's tree-trunk-thick legs to propel him through the air into the wall as though he were a ball. He picked himself up and glared slightly._

"Ooh," cooed the female voice, "He's limping."

_Batman held his left chest. Two ribs had been broken clean in two. Potentially, he could be bleeding internally or at least be in the process of starting to. He looked up at the aggressor. Bane was a tall man in his own right, containing within his tanned muscular frame a powerfully lethal strength of his own, but with the venom, things got a whole lot worse._

_The liquid, whose colour seemed to change within the iridescent light that peered through the gaps where Bane's frame did not blot it out, pumped furiously into the man's veins whenever Bane felt he required it. With the venom, his strength increased tenfold, his height increased and his bulk became ridiculous. In situations in which Bane had his venom, Batman needed his stamina and strength to outmanoeuvre and out-speed his opponent. _

_The other problem with Bane was that he was smart. He had orchestrated several Arkham break-outs in his time, several from the inside without the use of armament. He could analyse fighting ability and moves as well as Batman himself could in his exhausted condition. Bane's countering ability was increased only by Batman's distinct lack of strength. Zsasz on his own could be dealt with. Killer Croc on his own was not so bad. Even Bane, on his own, wasn't such an awful dilemma. All three in succession was definitely bad._

"He's usually a lot better at dodging," stated the Penguin, "Even when he's physically exhausted. The wounds Zsasz inflicted must have taken more of a toll than we had previously surmised."

"_Penguin's right, Batman," spat Bane, whose phlegm fired towards Batman in an unpleasant fashion. Bane's eyes, analytical, cold and violent, peered through the white and black mask and stared at his weakened foe, "You're not doing very well. You may very well collapse before I can even land another blow on you."_

"What'll you do if he dies, Mistah Jay?" asked Harley in her annoyingly singy-songy way.

"He won't." assured Joker.

"What if he does though?" asked Harley, pressing the buttons only an idiot, mainly Harley, would press.

"Yes," droned a boring and curious voice, "I would also like to inquire as to what you would do if he dies before he gets to you?"

"Oh," said the Joker, "He won't. I know him. He won't. He may be _dying _when he gets to me but he certainly won't be dead. Ooh, Pengy, how long has it been?"

"Well," explained the Penguin, "Killer Croc had one hour and twenty minutes. So it's been three hours and a half since he woke up. Two hours and a half since the 'torture' began."

"… Are we including the first hour as part of the torture?" asked another voice.

"Yeah, the torture of waiting for the first part of the violence to begin!" cried the Joker.

"So, if everyone has an hour each from now on, there will be precisely fourteen hours of torture." said the voice, thinking out loud.

"That's the plan!" cackled the Joker, somehow ignorant of the irony of his statement with regards to past statements made i.e. the ones about him trying to show people how pointless plans are. Not that the Joker ever cared about being contradictory. If it were a job, the Joker would have embodied it.

"_Couple of broken ribs," panted the Batman after exhuming a couple of millilitres of blood from his mouth, "Won't stop me beating you down."_

"_Now we're talking!" exclaimed Bane, meaning his statement in both the literal and figurative sense. Literal as they had actually exchanged words, hence talking, and figuratively as Bane was quite happy about Batman finally finding his inner desire to fight._

"You said he was good at dodging," observed yet another voice, "Let's see how good he is with two broken ribs impairing his movement."

***

Flash was beginning to think that Bats didn't like him. In fact, the thought had occurred to him several times before but he never seemed to act upon his theory. The fact Batman had placed him on Arkham Island raised a few questions. It was clear that his speed would be an advantage; allowing him to get from one side of the island to the other a lot faster than his Justice League colleagues – much to Superman's silent annoyance. However, not a single clue had turned up yet and he was beginning to wonder if there were any.

"So why did the Batman send you here?" asked Liz, far too curious for Flash's liking, "Not to keep an eye on empty cells, surely?"

"Can't tell you that," replied Flash proudly, "Official League Business."

The phrase 'Official League Business' had, in the past, been abbreviated to OLB as it was simply a habit of humans to shorten words. In fact, in the groups who were in constant contact with the League, most of the terms had been shortened to acronyms or nicknames. Even Batman, to his disgust, had been abbreviated to B. However, as Arkham was only ever in regular contact with Batman, such words would have only raised confusion.

"Of course," said Liz, "I forgot you Americans are all into the 'classified' stuff."

"And you're not in England?" asked James, determined to get as many criticisms in as he could physically manage.

"Freedom of Information Act," retorted Liz, "MP's expenses. If anything is classified, it's only because the media hasn't found a journalist with the balls."

"I hate politics." groaned Flash.

"Don't we all?" agreed Tom who was annoyed at the political spat between James and Liz. It was quite obvious they were flirting. They weren't even trying to hide it. What an interesting date those two would have. They'd end up scaring away all the potential customers with their boring conversation about the political affairs of Great Britain and the United States of America.

Flash sighed, blotting the dull argument out of his mind. Instead, his eyes shifted to the tiny tellies above his head. Without his permission, his body leant forward, his entire soul focusing on one, single screen. The pictures shifted every so often, each telly being responsible for four different cameras. It was on the third picture that Flash's body stiffened and his mind screamed through his mouth, "STOP!"

The other three in the room leapt slightly. Tom turned around to stare at Flash, his eyebrows falling into a deeply contorted confusion, "Stop what?"

"That picture there!" exclaimed Flash pointing at the telly which had grabbed his attention, "Stop it on the third camera."

Tom obeyed and the third camera relayed patiently its image to the onlookers who watched, furiously trying to focus their eyes to what the Flash had seen. None of them could though. Flash could. He could tell immediately that it was a loop, a loop with a message written in plain text that flashed up every five seconds. To Flash's light-speed eyes, the message could be seen and read, but to the inexperienced human eyes of the trio, there was nothing miraculous or special to behold.

"What're we looking at?" asked Tom.

"Uh," began the Flash before remembering that no one was to know of Batman's capture, "Nothing. I have to go, thought I saw a shadow in the picture. I'll check it out. You guys can carry on doing… whatever it is you were doing."

Flash shot out of the room before anyone could voice their disapproval. A grin a mile wide stretched upon his face. The message, a message only he could have seen, was sent by Batman. Bats hadn't placed him on the island because he wanted him out of the way: he put him on the island so he could unravel the clues that were tailored to _him_. The message had told him to, "Race to the highest point of Arkham and look east."

Bats trusted him. Flash smiled, but in his haste, forgot to inform the rest of the League of his discovery. Each of the paths Batman had set for the League, had specifically tailored clues. Only the League member on that particular path would be able to decipher them. The League had little more than six hours to rectify the situation before finding the clues and locating Batman within the time limit became impossible.

***

"You narrowly missed that," stated Bane, clicking the bones in his fists for no reason other than his own pleasure. The sound, through no fault of his own in his weakened condition, caused Batman to flinch ever so slightly and so Bane found the action quite an amusing one, "Next time you won't be so lucky."

Batman was now too tired to reply. He had been too tired to reply before but had found his mouth moving anyway, much to his disapproval. After all, this was the man who found it difficult to relax if his left eyelid blinked without his knowledge, or so people had been led to believe. Batman sighed and allowed his body a delicate and deep intake of breath. The consumption of oxygen was received gratefully.

One fist shot towards the Bat's head whilst the other, under the cover of the first, aimed for his stomach. The first one missed but the second once brushed the Bat's arm as he dove out of the way. On contact with the floor, he rolled but the damage to his arm was more severe than he thought and it screamed out in a perfectly synchronised cry, timing itself to the yells produced by the damaged tissue around by his broken ribs.

_Slower, _he told himself, _I need to think slower and move faster._

It was a task easier said than done but that did not discourage the almighty black creature from trying. Bane strode forward and clasped his hands together, attempting to connect them with the skull between the ears of the black cowl. Batman side-stepped, doggedly and gracefully dodging the blow but missing the second, which slammed into his side as he tried to move out of its path. Flying into the wall once more, the two broken ribs cried out in discontent.

"You've got slower," stated Bane, "Much slower."

Blood trickled down from the left hand corner of his mouth as his lips had no longer sought to contain the iron waters due to the tongue's understandable disgust. His sharp blue eyes glared at his attacked with an intensity only the man to whom they belonged could manage. He forced himself to his feet, despite their complaints, and slammed his left fist into his right palm aggressively. Though this was taken as a sign of fight-continuation to Bane, it was in fact, the Bat testing the strength of his punch and the test results were not promising considering who the attacked was.

_Dodging is not helping, _he rationalised, _It's not even helping me withhold what little strength I have. I need to hit him with everything I have in one go and hope he goes down._

Reserving no strength whatsoever, Batman steadied himself on his feet as Bane charged forwards. His first fist flew wide and the black mass was able to dive underneath it and land a solid punch on the rock-hard abs of the tanned fighting machine. The second attack was an assault by the knee which the Bat side-stepped away from before elbowing the bottom rib of Bane's left side. A third attack was unleashed from Bane's entire arm which swung down from the air to thump Batman who stood by his left side. Batman leapt out of the way and kicked Bane's calf with all the strength he could muster at the speed with which he required it.

Bane's left side buckled slightly, his calf falling towards the ground due to the pressure placed on it by Batman's carefully chosen attack. With Bane temporarily distracted, Batman punched, with all that remained of his rapidly diminishing strength, the back of Bane's head. However, Bane felt the attack and it was not enough to throw him into the deep, dark realms of unconsciousness. Two trunks grabbed Batman and launched him forward. Before his mind could register what had happened, Batman had been pinned to the ground by Bane.

"Not so dangerous now," began Bane, "Are you?"

"I don't know," spluttered the Bat, launching a clump of his bloody spit into Bane's left eye, "Odds still seem stacked in my favour."

Bane's left hand released pressure on Batman's arm to wipe the blood from the eye that belonged to the same side. This release in pressure caused Batman to move and the movement was detected by Bane who applied more pressure and leant forward. From here, Batman prayed he had a hard head and launched his own into Bane's. Bane's eyes widened and he, thankfully, fell backwards into unconsciousness. Batman smiled and got to his feet. His assailant had been defeated.

_Shit. _cursed Batman, allowing himself a swearword. Dizziness filled his head as he shot to his feet. Everything went black. His feet fell under him. His mind struggled to attend to the many complaints of his injuries. Taste, much to the satisfaction of his taste-buds, vanished. Smell sank away into nothingness and sound soon followed, leaving with the echoing, familiar and sickening laughter he had awoken to.

He had been so determined to defeat Bane, that trying to not fall unconscious was a matter that had simply not occurred to his sleepy mind until sound had vanished. His mind fought ferociously against the grey tides of sleep. His battle was strong but the current was stronger and it swept him away with it: forcing his still battling mind into the darkness of unconsciousness, an all too familiar realm.

***

Flash's feet pounded the earth at speeds no human could ever comprehend. He moved so fast that the ground hadn't even time to stir up dust. Since finding the first clue, he had been on a roll; discovering clue after clue after clue. So far, he'd found four and the third clue had told him there were precisely fifty. With his speed, and current progress, fifty would be no problem.

However, he was in such a rush that he didn't contact the League and his mind kept drifting away. Batman had been gone for five hours. What was happening to him, was he okay? Flash knew for a fact that being captured by the Big Bads of his own town wouldn't be good news but the fact was, and Flash was not afraid to admit it, Gotham was home to genuine psychopaths and at that very moment, Bats was at their mercy.

"Hang in there, Bats." ordered Flash as he shot towards the next clue.

**A/N: I've had two comments now asking about the Robin, Nightwing and co. I wasn't originally planning to write them in but if people want me to, I'm sure I can manage it.**

**Anyway, thanks to everyone who reviewed! Reviews are always appreciated. Thanks again for reading.**


	5. Les Vautours Regardent

Coalition

Chapter Five: Les vautours regardent

'The wise for cure on exercise depend;

God never made his work for man to mend' John Dryden

Again, the process of waking up had been painful, but, oddly, not as painful as he had imagined it would have been. There was a distinctive, unnerving throbbing in his head reminding him that headaches were incredibly uncomfortable, but otherwise, there was no injury causing a significant amount of pain for him to even think about it. His eyes wanted to open slowly, but had instead shot open as something sharp, sudden and intensely painful pricked his skin.

"Awake are we?" cooed an unfortunately familiar female voice.

His eyes shot to the source of the pain in time to cringe at the sight of a needle being pulled away from the skin beneath an exposed section of his midnight black armour. The sharply shimmering point of the needle seemed to laugh at him as it allowed a drop of the sickly green teal liquid to fall onto his armour. He watched the drop with terrified and apprehensive fascination. Though it did not damage the armour, it did exhume a deathly black smoke.

"I healed your injuries!" said the woman, as though it were a great act of kindness and pretending as though the needle that had perforated his skin was going to cause no more damage than a dead lamb.

"What was it?" he grunted, throat still aggravated from its blood coating and general mistreatment via repeated attempts of strangulation, "It definitely wasn't morphine."

"I wouldn't worry about what it is or was," she replied haughtily, "I'd worry about what it's going to do to you and how you're going to survive it."

"What have you done!?" asked Batman, mentally cursing himself for allowing to much desperation and panic to enter into his voice.

"Bandaged all of your wounds, over your armour of course," explained the woman, "Of course, it wasn't cheap."

"Never is." observed Batman, knowing that the female inmates were slightly easier to talk to and would certainly not see it as a sign of weakness. They took the fact that he was a man dressed up as a bat with no superpowers as a weakness.

"It's a slow-acting poison and although it _probably _won't kill you," she cooed, "It will certainly put you in excruciating pain. Though, illness is always more painful than wounds because the only thing stopping illness killing you is your immune system. How's yours, Batman?"

He grunted and watched as she left the room, the door being slammed and locked behind her. He wasn't tied down and as his vision began to clear, white strips of bloodied bandage could be seen covering the vast majority of his body. He frowned beneath his mask slightly. It appeared as though he'd let Zsasz land more hits on him than he'd thought. The run in with Croc and Bane wouldn't have helped either. There was one saving grace of his current aggressor; she wasn't going to reopen the slowly healing wounds.

He didn't move but observed that he was lying flat on the floor. Though his headache still pulsed frantically at the back of his head like a child seeking attention, it was an easy thing to ignore when apprehensively awaiting the promise of excruciating pain. He sighed. Everything in his mind focused on his training, much to the discontent of the headache at the back of his mind.

Whatever floodgates were holding the waves back, they were cracking. They were cracking fast.

***

Wonder Woman soared through the air of Gotham in much the same way as the other heroes did. The very action of her flying defied the forces of gravity, logic and physics but these forces found they didn't really mind all that much as she was very pretty. The intervention of some higher being, Hera, as Wonder Woman was quick to correct, would have silenced the forces' discontent as well at some point further down the line.

Her long, impossibly black hair fluttered about behind her in the very way wings would be expected to. Her intensely blue eyes scanned the buildings but failed to take anything in through the distinctively lifeless glaze of concern that covered their usually gleaming vitality. The gold crown-tiara upon her head glistened brightly in the fading light of the sun as it began to dip over the horizon, somehow upset that the team hadn't progressed any further.

Diana, as her non-superhero-name was, floated over buildings occasionally when her mind drifted further enough into itself to suddenly stop giving her body commands. In a similar fashion, her ears frequently failed, forget or flat-out refused to relay the radio-conversations and when these conversations demanded her presence, her name, as a haunted whisper in the air, screamed several times before she even noticed she had something in her ear.

_Diana…_

Her face lit up suddenly. The deep voice was so familiar. Her eyes, suddenly vivid with an intensely intelligent blue, shot about the area with a hope so profound that it silenced the surrounding wildlife. In the far distance, her eyes mockingly tricked two satellite dishes into the shape of the cowl. Nearing it with incredible speed, her eyes revealed their trick to her mind, forcing the dull, grey glaze to once again coat her eyes.

Diana…

It wasn't him. She knew that. He was good but he couldn't escape from fourteen incredibly strong psychopaths without some sort of help. He was still human, as easy as it was to forget that. He was a man; she had reminded herself on numerous occasions. However, he was like no man she had ever been told stories and tales of. It was often easy to forget that he was the only _truly _human member of the League: he had no superpowers at all. That was just one of many significant differences between him and the other members.

"Diana…"

He had all the determination that could be given to a single person and enough intelligence to know how it could be, should be, used. He was always planning things; she could always see it in his deeply violent blue eyes. His blue eyes always seemed so dark, deep and damaged by uncontrollable, coincidental torrents of chance but above that was a façade of calmness that seemed unbreakable. He was, within himself, an enigma: he seemed aggressive and pained, yet calm and relaxed. He was unreadable.

"Diana!"

It took her several seconds longer to realise that it was not the ghost of his voice she was hearing, rather a quite real and annoyed voice down the radio. She frowned slightly. It was ridiculous that she thought so much of one member of the League, allowing herself to be distracted so easily from the task at hand. If it were any other League member, she would not be so distracted. She needed to concentrate and ban her mind from wandering beyond the task she had been set.

"Sorry." was the only thing Diana could say.

"Answer faster next time," requested Superman, "Okay?"

"Yes," replied Wonder Woman, "Sorry."

"It's okay," stated Green Lantern, "We're all worried."

"Four hours and fifteen minutes," explained Alfred, "We still have plenty of time."

"Flash has been quiet for a while," observed J'onn, "Is he okay?"

"He's probably busy flirting with the doctors." theorised John Stewart inaccurately.

"Anyone got any further?" asked Alfred, before adding, almost insignificantly, "I'm running out of tea bags."

"Do you think he'll be alright?" asked Diana.

"Yes." replied Hawk Girl, Superman and Green Lantern in perfect synchrony.

"Found anything J'onn?" asked Superman, "Have you managed to find him yet?"

"No," replied the Martian Manhunter, unfortunately failing to live up to the second word of his superhero name, "I think he's blocking me. However, I keep getting traces of emotions and feelings. They're small but they're there."

"Anything at the moment?" asked Diana nervously.

"Apprehension," stated J'onn firmly, completely assured in this knowledge, "If I didn't know him better, I'd say it were fear."

Diana fell silent and continued her search.

***

Poison Ivy never failed to live up to her namesake. He'd been injected with poison, of that much he was sure but even if he knew what it was, it would do very little to help him combat it. The trouble with poison is that once it's in your bloodstream, any movement will help it move faster so all the almighty Batman could do was lie down and wait for the inevitable. Though, he'd never been much good at that so he had, within fifteen minutes, tightened the bandages either side of the site of injection in the vague hope that it would lessen whatever effects it may have.

They'd watched with interest as he had tried to tighten the bandages without unnecessary movement. It was fairly impressive and they were forced to admit that on the basis that it simply was. However, they were more interested in what Poison Ivy had actually done as she was watching with a distinctly curved smile of utter smugness on her face. Not all of the villains present could understand her satisfaction but that was mostly as the Batman wasn't feeling the effects yet. Or, at least, had yet to show it.

_Breathe, _Batman commanded of himself, _Calm down: it could __**still **__be worse._

Whilst most of the planet would disagree with the caped crusader over this matter, it would only be a few short seconds before he himself would be disagreeing, even if it only be a temporary clash of differences, with his own theory. Bruce's pessimism, as Alfred had explained on several occasions, was simply a very convoluted form of optimism. This theory went as so: if things _could _be _worse_, then they were actually _quite good_. Bruce, on all of the occasions Alfred had explained this, shrugged off the theory as he had 'better things to be doing'.

_What did she say? _asked Batman, _She said it '__**probably **__wouldn't kill me'. That means she doesn't believe it can kill me, which means it's probably not strong enough or not a concentrated enough dose to kill me. She also knows I'm human so would have, just to be sure, avoided giving me a dose that could kill a human. So, I should be alright. Minus the pain. I'll be fine._

This phrase simply gave more weight to Alfred's argument who tried fruitfully to inform his master that Batman was essentially, no matter how much he refused it, an optimist. He'd been created to rid a town of corruption, as optimistic ideal. He wanted to inspire good in other people, hardly a pessimist's plan. He did not want to be Batman forever, an optimistic hope at best. Though Bruce secretly agreed with Alfred, he was often too busy to actually say so, and thus the lectures continued.

A further five minutes later, he had observed, _She wasn't kidding when she said it was slow-acting._

Thus, as the laws of the universe demand, his observation and any trail of thoughts that may have begun to form in his head were obliterated as a tsunami of pain swept through the cityscape of his mind. Pain burned the sizzling ends of every nerve ending, smouldering continuously even as more hordes of the blasted bombardment let loose a fiery armament upon them. All sensual words were forced beneath the raw red oppression and the only thing his panicked brain could make out from the continual and never-ending messages from the system of nerves was pain.

The bright blue eyes were surrounded by an ocean of bloody red as tears, painfully cool, stained the skin around his eyelids. His eyebrows furrowed as deeply as they could and in fact, even as the nerve endings became scarred by pain, the muscles of his eyebrows managed to groan in dull pain. His breathing became laboured and intermittent as allowing cold, glacial air to touch upon his throat seemed to only encourage the wild stabs of pain to attack with more vigour the already overloaded nervous system.

Normally, a part of the black Bat would reprimand him for showing his enemies such weakness but this sense, as occasionally it was, had quickly been silenced by the intolerable pain that continued to eat away at his nerve endings. Pain shot down his spine, forcing his body to recoil before curling into a ball. Gloved hands grasped onto armoured shins in the vague hope that crushing the muscles of these shins would relieve, in part, some of the vast pain that threatened to swallow up what resolve was fighting for survival in the face of ridiculous odds.

_Ignore… _whispered strange unfamiliar words that sounded just above the deafening cries of his body, _Think…_ the sound was louder now, but not enough to drown out the pain, _Remember… _he ignored the words. What they were conspiring to get him to do hurt more than his burning body ever would. He bit his lips and drew blood but this action went unnoticed as the torrent of hurt continued to flush against his nervous system.

***

Diana had recovered. She was frustrated with herself for needing to recover in the first place. Sitting around worry about Batman wasn't going to find him and thinking about finding him instead of actually moving wasn't helping either. It had taken her a while for these messages to sink into her mind but once they had, she was on her way to finding her first clue, though she was unaware of this.

"Guys!" came a panicked Green Lantern over the radio.

"What is it?" asked Superman.

"It's J'onn," explained John Stewart, "He must have stumbled onto my path and fallen."

"Fallen?" asked Alfred.

"He's semiconscious but mumbling nonsense," explained the increasingly concerned Green Lantern, "I don't know what's wrong with him."

"He said he was in partial mental contact with Batman," said Diana, worried about where her logic was requiring her to go, "Wasn't he?"

"Try and snap him out of it," ordered Superman, "I'm on my way."

Wonder Woman allowed herself to land and sit on the crest of a tower block. Awaiting for the outcome was painstakingly slow. Commands, suggestions and requests were flying over the radio almost as fast as replies could come. When Superman had arrived on the scene, Alfred had immediately been requested to pull up files on the Martian's physiology in the hope that there would be something there. There was and when they tried it, harsh intakes of breath echoed through the radio.

"J'onn, J'onn, are you okay?" asked Superman, concern audible in his voice.

"I am," panted the Martian, "He's not."

"Who?" asked the Green Lantern, trying to avoid confirming what connection his mind had already made, "Batman?"

"Yes," said J'onn, "He's…"

"What happened?" asked Superman, "I thought you could only get little bits from him."

Although Wonder Woman was not there, she could very well imagine J'onn giving Superman a very blank stare as he delivered his next line, "That _was _only a little bit. His mental barrier went down briefly, but when I tried to reassure him, they went back up."

"What're you trying to say?" asked the curiously concerned Green Lantern.

"I got twenty seconds of what he's experiencing right now."

"Then why did it seem as though it lasted much longer?" asked Superman.

"We Martians have far more sensitive nervous systems that mostly only react to internal pain," explained J'onn, "Whatever they gave him is a poison, but its not enough to kill him."

"What are they doing to him then?" asked Hawk Girl.

Before the reply came, and before Wonder Woman could silence them, Alfred spoke through the radio with a slightly broken voice, "I think it's best we focus on the matter of finding him."

Wonder Woman found her head bobbing of its own accord, allowing her eyes to fall onto a very uncanny object. She frowned for a second before a beaming, vibrant and optimistic smile lit up her face. She dove towards it with the vigour of a bird of prey and began examining it. She knew it was a message. She knew it was a clue. She knew she could find him in time.

***

"So, Pengy!!" began the Joker.

"My name is the Penguin," snapped Oswald Cobblepot aggressively, "It's not a hard thing to remember."

"Details, details," retorted the Joker, carefully balancing the pointed end of a knife on the end of his finger, "Anyway, who's been?"

"To your logic," began the Penguin, quietly muttering, "Convoluted as it may be," before returning to producing sound within audible levels, "Harley, Zsasz, Killer Croc, Bane and Poison Ivy."

"Then we can send… uh… good Ol' Scarecrow in at nine!" declared the Joker whose knife balancing trick gathered a small amused and impressed crowd of fellow psycho/sociopaths.

"Not quite," stated Poison Ivy, "I administered the poison at quarter past eight and it took fifteen minutes to take effect. It will be another hour before it wears off. You can send him in at half nine."

"That's not fair!" whined the Scarecrow with such an aggressive undertone that the Joker himself was impressed.

"So we go over by a couple of minutes," reassured the Joker, "It only means he gets to suffer a bit more before he meets my new gun. Speaking of which," the Joker leapt from his reclining position on the wooden chair and rounded on Harley who was polishing the bullets of the weapon in question, "HARLEY!"

Harley nearly leapt out of her skin, "Yes, Mistah-J?"

"Have you finished polishing those bullets?!" snapped the Joker aggressively, knife in hand, waving it about threateningly.

"Nearly!" exclaimed Harley with a mix of excitement and fear, "Will move onto the gun shortly, Cap'n!"

The Joker simply grumbled acknowledgment and returned to his front-row seat of Batman curled up in a ball like a little baby trying to work through whatever pain the poison was causing him. It wasn't as amusing as he thought it'd be but the occasional grunts, whimpers and cries were enough to silence the Joker's discontented mind. A smile as wide as a mile snuck up on his face as he watched the little Bat shudder and shiver.

_It's not as bad anymore, _he mentally screamed over the continuing anguish in his mind. After a brief pause, he allowed himself to add, _No. It is. I've just gotten used to it. Strange as it sounds._

To his nervous system, that theory was indeed very strange. The pain had not subsided, if anything, it had intensified. So where the Batman was receiving these notions of subsiding pain from remained a mystery to the vast organic organ in his skull. The waves of fiery heat cascaded against the nerve endings, leaving them in such a state that they wanted to pack up and give up altogether. His frown, somehow, managed to furrow deeper as though the muscular pain this caused was enough to distract him from the burning pain throughout the inside of his body.

_At least I can think now, _he congratulated, _Though that isn't really helping much._

Every cell in his body felt as though it were being torn asunder by electrically glistening claws. From their torn state, tiny vindictive flames of fabulous, vibrant red scorched each individual cell all over, coating it in thick black fumes that continued to smoulder and cause intense pain. There were occasional surges as well, where the pain would peak to levels beyond what his mind was willing to comprehend. There was one coming.

_The words, earlier, _he grunted as the thirtieth wave of pain began to surge upwards against the enormous gates that held it, _It was J'onn. It must have been. He's trying to stay in contact with me, trying to locate me mentally. If I can just concentrate for long enough, I can…_

All remaining sense was blown away as the hurricane, whose winds had been contorted into a flurry of fire, swept through his body. His mouth shot open and, with his mind subdued by the pain, an animalistic anguished cry of pain roared from his throat which, itself, was enduring an inferno of red-hot needles. The pain subsided and his eyes, which had shot open, unable to fight the pain, began to excrete thick, salty liquid which burned the bare skin around it. He had once been told, as his memory failed to tell him, that expressing pain was an effective way of dealing with it. So when his mind regained control and fought for silence, the pain seemed to well up once more.

***

Wonder Woman could laugh, she was so happy. She held up the object triumphantly and placed it back on the floor. It _was _a message. It was all so clear. Bruce had given them specific routes because they had certain messages that had been tailored to them. Things only that person would understand, know or consider. She leapt off the building and shot towards the next clue, slowing only to relay her message, "Listen! I've found a clue!"

"Excellent work, Miss!" exclaimed Alfred, "What is it?"

"No time for that, Alfred," stated Wonder Woman, "Everyone listen. The routes Bruce gave each of us are specifically _for_ us. Simply, the clues on my route are clues only _I _can understand. Changing the routes was a bad idea!"

"Alright," ordered Superman, "J'onn, Hawk Girl and GL, meet me at Wayne Tower. We're going to swap maps and get back on track!"

With the atmosphere of victory swirling around the team, it became difficult to let the pessimism of J'onn's experience get to them. They'd find him. They'd find him in time. They'd save him. Everything would be okay. In the distance, a black figure and an enigma laughed at the group's naïveté and wondered how they had survived as long as they had with naivety on the scale they had it.

**A/N: Thanks for waiting guys, this one was a bit harder to write. Thanks to everyone who continues to read, review, favourite, story alert… so on and so forth. It is appreciated and it does actively encourage me from forgetting to write the next chapter!**


	6. Das Spiel

Coalition

Chapter Six: Das Spiel

'There is a pleasure in the pathless woods' Lord Byron

"Batsy, Batsy, Batsy!" chanted the Joker through the loudspeakers, "Who's afraid of the Big Bad Bat?"

He opened his eyes. The pain continued to smoulder but it was fading, sinking into eternal darkness as his almighty immune system finally purged it. The few and lucky muscles who had been purified and cured of the burning poison shook occasionally and had taken on a dull, droning pain that he could only feel with every beat of his heart. Though the watching vultures were unable to tell, his skin was now coated with a thin layer of cold sweat.

"That poison worn off yet?" asked the Joker, to both the Batman and Poison Ivy.

"Ten minutes more," said Posion Ivy inspecting her watch, "I thought he'd fight it off sooner."

Batman growled. His heart burned with passionate and righteous anger, _How dare she say that?! _he roared ferociously in his head, temporarily silencing the pain that continued to course throughout his body in place of blood, _How __**dare **__she say that!?_

"Don't think he likes you." teased the Joker, knowing full well that he didn't like _anyone_.

"I don't care," she snapped haughtily, "So long as he suffers."

Batman rolled onto his front from lying on his side. His recovering muscles felt heavy and numb as he tried to move onto his hands and knees. His mind blurred and went dizzy with the effort, forcing his stomach to threaten to un-digest his last meal. He pulled his right leg under his crouched body, placing the dumb, lifeless foot flat on the floor. As he placed weight into the well-trained foot and strained to his feet, it buckled beneath him and his entire weight collapsed back to the floor in a graceless heap.

"I've never seen you so determined, Bats!" cried the Joker mockingly.

Batman's black cowl collided with the floor as he smashed his skull into the softly padded carpet. His fists balled and battered the same area. He growled and struggled, once more, to his feet. This time, it was the shooting pain in his unrecovered left leg that sent him to the place he had escaped seconds earlier. Frowning, his legs were forced to obey his command once more, only to give way and defy them less than fifty seconds later.

"Interesting," mumbled an incoherently analytical voice, "He just never gives up, does he?"

"I swear," exclaimed a deeply dark voice, "He's no human."

"He has a heart," stated another, "That's human enough for me."

"We talkin' organ heart or metaphor heart?" asked another whose voice lacked any sort of eloquence.

Batman groaned and tried again. There were only so many times his legs would fall under his weight before they became accustomed and adjusted to it. There were two silver linings to this performance. The first was that the act of forcing himself to get up was distracting his mind from the few remaining muscles that the immune system had yet to rescue. The second was that it was amusing the group of super-villains sufficiently enough to make them temporarily forget about sending Scarecrow in.

***

Green Lantern, in his alien-green beauty, shot through the skyline of Gotham's dark and miserable city with the vigour and speed of a bullet. Though his mind had grown used to it, his body still reacted slightly to the thick green aura his ring produced by coating his skin in goosebumps. This, though, didn't bother him. What bothered him was that the group had decided to change maps in the first place. What bothered him was that they hadn't found Batman yet.

"GL?" asked Superman, who was eagerly awaiting the others at the meeting point.

John Stewart frowned as his eyes fell upon a crouching figure on a rooftop. Knowing his colleague as well as anyone was able, he approached the figure silently. They did not move but underneath their black armour, their muscles seemed to shift in anticipation and aggression. He placed his free hand over the wrist of his ring-arm and tip-toed with cat-like readiness toward the crouching, pointy eared creature.

"GL?" asked Superman again.

The buzz of the radio was enough to frighten away the delicate creature, who leapt off the building with grace that the Green Lantern was unable to identify. He chased after the black bullet as it shot down side alleys and up the sides of buildings. During this chase, he identified a delicate black tail bobbing from behind the running animal. He recognised the villain from a tale Batman had once told him. He dove suddenly and caged the Cat.

"GL?" asked Superman.

"I've found one." replied the Green Lantern, smiling at the unhappy Black Cat in his iridescent green cage.

"One what?" asked Hawk Girl, "A clue?"

"No," he replied, his smile turning to a grin, "An inmate."

"Fantastic!" exclaimed the Superman, "We'll come to you."

"Well," said Green Lantern, "Look what the Cat dragged in."

From within the confines of her garishly green prison of light and several other complex things she could neither be bothered or interested enough to understand, she glared at the superhero. Her paw-hands were on her hips and she looked very unimpressed. In fact, she held the exact same expression that a cat will wear when its human tries to get it to play with a toy shaped like a mouse.

"That's not even _vaguely _funny." hissed Catwoman from behind her cage of green.

"You say that," retorted Green Lantern, "As if you wouldn't have made the same joke in my position."

Catwoman fell silent. There was very little she could do to counter that point, though, as she had pointed out, it failed to make it any funnier. After all, it didn't even make sense. 'Look what the Cat dragged in' would imply that she had something with her, which she didn't, so the phrase itself didn't even make sense. She frowned and sat on the floor, watching her captor cautiously and awaiting for the rest of the Garishly Coloured Brigade to turn up.

***

Alfred sighed. He had been waiting for something like this. He knew something like this would happen. He frowned and paced the length of the Cave. The League didn't know he was pacing the Cave, nor did they know that he was carrying a portable radio and miniature hand-held computer instead of sitting at the large, unwieldy terminal situated in the Cave.

"Anyone found anything else?" he asked, his voice echoing dimly around the vast black abyss.

"No." was the consensual reply.

His walking slowed, his head bowed. Taking a deep breath, he continued to pace. Each footstep sounded throughout the room, multiplying its noise, and yet it was not heard. From the Cave's ceiling, occasional drops of freezing, cold and isolated drops of water fell upon the usually lonesome and silent floor. There were many, many small and silent occupants of the Cave but they had long since faded into the Cave's very design; becoming the ghosts of their own cave.

Alfred walked over to the terminal. It was the most technologically advanced computer on Earth, one of, arguably, Earth's most important and valuable resources. However, despite all of their best efforts, damage had befallen the almighty machine and its destiny had been irrevocably altered. Bruce had found it and taken it in, restoring it to its prime, but it remained hidden from the society that had praised it and would never function in quite the same way again.

The restoration of the Manor had allowed for the Cave's improvements. However, the building of the Cave had been done by a tiny group of people; just three. One of which never asked for its purpose, one who needed its purpose and one who regretted the trouble its purpose would cause. Thus, due to the tiny workforce involved, it had been easier to create pathways leading from several different rooms, all, of course, with their own, unique secret code. Though, Alfred found himself observing, it would all be for naught unless the League could find Mister Wayne.

"We'll find him." resounded a voice.

"I know," lied Alfred, "I know they will."

"He'll be fine," continued the voice, "You know what he's like."

"Sometimes," began Alfred, "I wish I didn't."

"Frankly," replied the voice, "I wish I didn't either."

"Hmm." agreed Alfred silently.

"I wonder if anyone else knows what Batman's like."

Alfred smiled slightly.

***

"Come again?" asked John, "I don't think I heard right."

From inside the green cage, the eyes of Selina Kyle rolled in much the way one can see cats do. She had been negotiating with the Underpant Outside of Trousers Brigade for the last fifteen minutes and she had eventually decided that, for reasons she would keep to herself, she would help them. A part of her could barely even understand why they were surprised. After all, she was far more than just another of Gotham's so-called super-villains.

"Why?" she hissed, "Are you deaf?"

A short silence followed.

"What?" she growled, "Cat got your tongues?"

Superman shuffled slightly. His ridiculously huge muscles shifted beneath his costume as he attempted to assert his authority. Beside him, Green Lantern was surprised to find himself doing the same. Hawk Girl's grip involuntarily tightened around her mace. Afar from the group, sitting atop a dustbin, the Martian was seeking out the Bat; so engrossed in this task that he barely even noticed the development in negotiations.

"Could you repeat that please?" asked Superman politely, more so than was necessary.

"Yes," she purred, "I'll help you find the Bat."

"Why?" asked Hawk Girl, "He's imprisoned you on numerous occasions, why would _you_ want to help _him_?"

"Sabotage."

"Of what?" asked the Green Lantern, "You want to sabotage the coalition? Why?"

"Can't a cat just want to cause a little chaos?"

"There's got to be another reason," stated Superman, "Why would you help us free Batman?"

"Surely," she purred, "You shouldn't be turning down help? Being as nearly six hours have past, with no progression in finding him."

The group paused and looked amongst themselves. They nodded and exchanged maps. However, despite Wonder Woman's revelations, Superman was incredibly unwilling to give J'onn the map which rightly belonged to him. This was due to the fact that J'onn had been given the longest route by Batman and, whilst partially trying to mentally find him, the huge distance he had to cover would physically and mentally exhaust him to a point where joining the actual recovery attempt would be dangerous.

Despite this, J'onn was eventually given his map and the group split, following the set paths. The Green Lantern and Catwoman had been left alone, as GL had been assigned the Cat as aid for his map following. Though John had initially had his reservations, he had quickly discovered that Catwoman could move as quickly across the roof tops as the Bat, who was used to following his fellow Justice League members over roof tops as they flew.

After five minutes, the Green Lantern found his universal curiosity too difficult to reign in and found that the distance between him and Catwoman had decreased, as his flight's height had lowered. They were side by side when his mouth suddenly found that it was unable to withhold the burning questions that itched and aggravated the brain which held them. He turned to her and she, slightly annoyed, acknowledged that she was about to be interrogated.

"What's the real reason?" he asked.

"I don't have to answer to you." she hissed.

"Look," he retorted, "Batman told me about you once. There's something else here, right?"

She fell silent. Her face became grave and unreadable. Beneath the mask, within her rib cage, a flame of pride and happiness burned in her heart, but outwardly, there was no reaction to the statement. She looked back at the Green Lantern with eyes so emotionally intense, that he was unable to respond with anything other than a sudden aversion of the eyes.

"I have my reasons." she spat a short while later.

After jumping death-defying leaps over the rooftops of the dark, deep and profoundly corrupt Gotham city, they came across something which grabbed their joint attention. They paused by it and stared at it with all the curiosity that could be expected of a newborn kitten. The roof on which they were standing on held no particular significance other than the fact that it held the clue which they sought. Though, if they were able to observe the building by daylight, they would have seen that it was a prime example of late eighteenth century architecture.

"What's that?" asked the Green Lantern curiously.

The Cat approached it cautiously but holding an air of complete confidence. The object was a small green, glowing neon cat that was made, quite obviously, of glass. The couple moved towards it, leaning in closer for a better inspection. The light inside was a simple and very small light bulb that was beginning to flicker and die. Catwoman picked it up and looked underneath it; the Green Lantern frowned, wondering why she had done such a thing.

"What're you doing?" asked John Stewart.

"I once stole a solid emerald cat that looks identical to this one," she explained, waving the statue of glass in his face, "And on the bottom, there was a message in an ancient language I couldn't understand."

"And you think that if this is a clue from Batman, he would have left a clue on the bottom?" asked Green Lantern, "Makes sense."

There was a short pause as the Cat dressed in black examined the message inscribed in the bottom of the glass green cat. As she read it, her eyes seemed to dim as though she failed to understand the message. The Green Lantern recognised this sudden change and stepped forward, concerned that it may not have been a message left by Batman and instead could be a trap of some description.

"What does it say?" he asked.

"Follow the Green to Lantern's Light." she quoted.

"Hmmm," he said, thinking before adding suddenly, "I get it! He would have left a trail that I can trace with the energy from my ring, and it will take us to the next clue."

"I see," purred Selina, "Then this route was created with both of us in mind."

The two took a short thirty seconds to admire the intelligence and forethought of the man in question. He had clearly assumed that Catwoman would work against the coalition and allow herself to be found by the League in order, for her own reasons, to help them. He then decided that Superman would tell GL to work with Catwoman. All of this, he had guessed. His intelligence scared them to a degree.

"Well," said John Stewart, "I don't think we should be surprised."

"No," she agreed, "We shouldn't."

***

_The pain's gone, _he told himself, _It's just dull pain now, just the memory of what I felt earlier. At least I can stand up now._

Batman had managed to stand up after several, what felt like hundreds, of attempts. From his new position, he had limped into the far corner of the room and had leant against it, holding the left hand side of his rib cage, which still ached slightly, confirming his belief that he had broken at least one of his ribs. He groaned, aware that his body would be aching for a long long time afterwards, if he survived the given fourteen hours anyway.

He opened his eyes and looked up. Directly in front of his eyes was a gas canister. He had enough time to frown before a flurry of unhealthy looking green gas flooded into his face. It invaded his nostrils and mouth and leapt down his throat with incredible speed. It then engulfed his lungs and began to force its way into his blood stream. His eyes fluttered from the sudden shock of a foreign but distinctly bad substance entering his body.

Upon opening his eyes, he was met with the suddenly terrifying Scarecrow and all sense ceased to be.

**A/N: Okay, I apologise sincerely for not updating sooner. I'll update when I can but I can't guarantee that it will be as often as before. Once a week at the least I hope. Thanks again to everyone who has favourited, story alerted and reviewed!!**


	7. Tu As Peur?

Coalition

Chapter Seven: Tu as peur?

'I will show you fear in a handful of dust' T.S. Elliott

The Martian flew high above the sky, a foreign creature in a foreign atmosphere. Despite Earth being his adopted home, the city over which he now flew was as alien to him as the first time he had breathed Earth's air. He had been to Gotham before, during the day, when the sun's bright and all-consuming light lit the city up as though it were the most beautiful firework display ever crafted. The rays, during these hours of summer daylight, would glisten intimately like softly swirling lakes of gold against the tall and intimidating skyscrapers. However, at night the city was dark.

The tiny, insignificant city street lights could do little, despite their man-given right to deliver light, to brighten up the dark city as the sun plunged over the horizon, eager to withdraw itself from the depths of darkness. The almighty skyscrapers seemed to bend and slouch, as though suddenly fearful of some higher force that was nocturnal and terrifying. Wayne Tower stood at the centre of the city and from it a distinctively warm series of lights flooded out into the city, as though trying to warm it and comfort it with the very thing it lacked.

J'onn knew Gotham was a bad place. The other League members had, on occasion, referred to it simply as 'The Dark City' as they had all seen the perpetual and corruptible darkness that swallowed it once the sun had fallen beyond the delicate horizon. He was beginning to understand why Batman was such a dark character, why he could be so determined to close himself off in a veil of night. J'onn could never admit to having been that way once himself, but he had yet to fully understand how deep Batman's feelings ran.

The radio chattered in his ear.

"Why don't you just take me straight there, you know where they are, right?" asked a curious and increasingly frustrated John Stewart.

Though the reply was quiet, as its owner did not have their own radio, J'onn was able to identify it.

"I have my reasons." replied the sly Cat.

"Care to explain them?" asked the Green Lantern.

"Not really," she hissed, "But being as you asked so nicely, I will. He doesn't want you to find him. So, I won't take you there until the time is up."

"He could die," shouted John, "And you're not gonna help us save him?!"

"You're not listening to me," snapped Catwoman, "You don't understand how he thinks."

"And you do?" he retorted.

"All of the people he locks up can claim to know him better than you."

"OK, then explain."

"This is a challenge for him. Nothing more, nothing less. If you and your little group interfere, it'll prove nothing to him. He's trying to prove something to himself."

"What's he trying to prove?"

"Only he can know that."

"Then why did he bother to get us involved?"

"Oh, that's easy. You're Plan Z."

"Sorry?" asked John, clearly unable to understand the implications of what the Cat Burglar was saying.

"Plan 5Z at the most, I'd say," said Catwoman before explaining further, "5Z meaning the alphabet five times through."

"And how do you know all this?" he asked.

"We just do."

The Martian ceased to listen then, as a second, equally as interesting conversation arose. Apparently, J'onn pondered, the Green Lantern's interrogation of Catwoman had led to other members of the group questioning the efficiency of searching for clues. Everyone was beginning to think of more direct, more logical routes to finding Batman but these ideas were shot down as quick as they were given.

"You could interrogate Catwoman for the location." suggested Hawk Girl.

Catwoman heard and responded with, "If you do, you won't get _any _help."

"Can't you use your x-ray vision to scan the buildings and just find them?" asked Wonder Woman, wondering why the thought hadn't struck her earlier.

"Batman placed a special compound in all of the buildings in Gotham that prevent me from seeing inside them," explained Superman, "We were never best friends."

"Why would the inmates even group together in the first place?" asked Flash, finally contributing to the conversation, "He told me once that they were all far too ego… ego…"

"Egocentric, sir?" offered Alfred.

"Yeah, egocentric," confirmed Flash, "He said they were all far too egocentric to work together."

"The coalition was led by the Joker, Scarecrow and Riddler," explained Catwoman, "They're the greatest manipulators, besides, it was an opportunity to get rid of the common enemy and everyone got a fair go."

"Then why'd you leave?" asked John.

"Drop it, okay?" retorted the Cat.

The Martian Manhunter rolled his eyes and regretted that his namesake seemed to be failing him. Every bone in his alien structure told him, with an incessantly high frequency, that something was wrong. As he soared over the Dark City, and saw the many abysmal alleys and side-streets, he found that his mind began to sync with his bones until the black monster below began to form a sick ball of fear within his stomach that began to cloud his mind and destroy his senses.

Landing on a roof top, he swayed from side to side. His mind was barely able to make sense of anything in between its acknowledgements of a dizzy sensation. His eyes began to relay false images into his head; images of a swirling, white and golden abyss of intense evil and terrifying darkness. In his stomach, the ball of fear tightened and became smaller despite the terror it was creating becoming larger. He doubled over and steadied his shivering, quivering body with his hands and knees.

It took several long and disorientating moments for his mind to loosen its contact with that of the Black Bat. When his mental awareness had done so, his mind began to clear and the ball of fear faded to an apprehensive cluster of butterflies. Then, the thought drifting inside his brain computed with his senses. What he had experienced was not his own fear of the black beast of Gotham, but instead, of the fears that _a _black beast of Gotham was experiencing. Wherever Batman was, fear was pumping through his body faster than his heart dare beat.

J'onn moved a hand towards his radio but thought better of it; it was not what they needed to hear at that moment.

***

_Scarecrow,_ he told himself, _Fear gas. Not real. Not real. Not real._

Grasping his head in his hands, he staggered back. He forced his eyes shut as opening them utterly destroyed any thought processes he was able to start. Despite his closed eyes, his body fell to the floor, unable to fight off the dizziness that picked up his thoughts and threw them against the cavernous walls of his mind like an almighty tsunami. His lungs burned and his body reacted to the gas by lurching and coughing violently and aggressively as though trying to rid itself of the poison.

He could hear the laughter for what it was for all of ten seconds before the poison contorted the sound into echoes of demoniac shrieks that rang throughout his mind like a bullet shattering glass. The sound sent him scrambling backwards, his heart quivering inside his chest, a ball of fear so small and tight in his stomach that it twisted all of the surrounding muscles into swirling arcs of phobia. Within his nose, a familiar scent began to form. Frowning, he allowed his eyes to form slits beneath the mask.

"What do you fear?" asked the hideously grotesquely cry of a demon.

The room was a cave. From the roof, thick droplets fell at the speed a snail dares to move. Daggers of stone hung from the ceiling, watching and waiting like terrific predators. Staggering to his feet, he looked around. Logic displaced by fear, the Bat believed he were inside a cave which no light dare enter. The cave was damp and dark and dank. The moisture was tangible, forming droplets on his skin which eerily fell downwards from his forehead.

Mind was fooled into believing that balance had indeed returned, so the Bat dared to place his feet forwards. However, this sense of balance was false and the almighty Bat was brought to his hands and knees before a God hidden by the darkness of fear. With each exhalation, a flurry of warm, real air fluttered delicately from his mouth as his body reacted to the fear-poison by panting. The smell was ever so familiar: and terrifying and the sound, the quiet, almost undetectable sound twittered and chattered just beneath his hearing; silenced by a deliberately placed ringing of white noise.

Breathing out the evermore delicate, fragile pants of exhausted, tired yet eternal flurry, his ocean blue eyes, in which fear swam as sharks of white, were appalled to see it snatched away by a sudden black dart. It shot from his vision faster than a bullet but was large enough and black enough for his eyes to follow it to the corners of his peripheral vision. He looked up slowly, apprehension temporarily coating the tight ball of fear so thickly that it was almost invisible. His eyes glazed over as they fell upon the image of their disgust.

"What does the Big Bad Bat fear?" cried the demoniac mockery.

Bats. They chattered and whispered and conspired above him within the safety of their huge, numerous, nocturnal black mass. Their glistening bead black eyes stared down at him, reflecting the very fear he himself was exhibiting in awe of their terrifying power. His heart was pumping to a beat his blood could hardly keep up with and his body was cold from the dampness of the cave and the cold sweat engulfing his body.

Frozen, his body soon found itself unable to even shiver. The deeply furrowed brow raised itself in pure fear and his eyes soon began to race along the cavernous rooftop, scanning the behaviour of the bats for any danger. His feet were encased in the ground itself, his muscles refusing to move even an inch under the watchful gaze of the terrifying creatures above his head. A single movement would be enough to attract their attention.

A sudden movement like the one the demon had just forced him to make. Stumbling forward, the bats realised he was there. They dove in perfect harmony, like a sick symphony of obsidians cascading down towards his head. In his defence, his arms flew up to batter the beasts away. Fear coursed through his veins and he ran around the cave, finding that it was not as big as he had allowed himself to believe. Instead, he bounced off the sharp, jagged cave walls as the bats chased him frantically around the room.

"What is it you fear," asked the Scarecrow, "Batman?"

The pit of fear inside his stomach had welled up and engulfed him. His lungs were drowning inside an ocean of invisible blue. Yet his veins burned as the blood pumped through them at rates far beyond what he could consider to be normal. A thin layer of cold, fear-induced sweat coated the space between the black armour and his delicate skin. The bright blue glistening crystals that previously sat in his eyes had vanished behind a glaze of intense and blinding phobia.

_Get them away from me! _he screamed mentally, before a deeper, darker, scarier memory emerged that turned the fear to something worse and something far more dangerous, _It was my fault. It was all my fault._

***

"J'onn? J'onn?"

The Martian Manhunter was drawn abruptly from his trance, snapped from his mental connection with Batman into the deep darkness of reality. In this distanced state, the link took a more scientific approach; lending him details of the Bat's beating heart and physical condition rather than the rapidly deteriorating state of mind. It occurred to him that telling the League of his physical condition would worry them severely, let alone informing them of the vast conspiracy currently working to undermine the sanity of his will.

"J'onn, you've been silent for fifteen minutes," stated Superman, "What's happened?"

"Nothing," he lied badly, "He's fine."

It was at moments like this that J'onn wished he hadn't taken on the art of expressing one's emotions. Despite trying to hide concern, it had managed to seep into his voice like a poison seeping through tissue into veins. He frowned slightly; frustrated that he had allowed his emotion gain control over his voice. They'd notice, of that he was sure. The League, if anything, were able to identify the smallest human emotion. They'd place him under moral pressure and he'd give, like a weak stick trying to hold back a tank, and then they'd know.

"You're lying." stated the Green Lantern.

"What's happened, J'onn?" snapped Wonder Woman, in no mood to be lied to.

"You don't want to know," he explained simply, "I don't think I wanted to."

"J'onn," hissed Diana, "Please."

"Fear."

There was a pause. As though the collective League were attempting to decipher what exactly the Martian meant; as though the word simply didn't make sense, as though they believed Batman were incapable of feeling fear. He could sense what they were feeling and thinking without needing to even consider probing their minds. Disbelief, surprise, concern. The idea of Batman feeling fear was such an alien concept to them.

"Sure you got the right guy, J'onn?" asked John Stewart.

"Yes."

"It's the Scarecrow." explained Alfred.

"Who?" asked Hawk Girl.

"Oh, I know him!" exclaimed the Flash, "Bats said he's the guy who uses fear."

"Batman's run in to him before," reassured Superman, "I'm sure he'll be fine."

"You don't understand," said Alfred, voice suddenly panicked, "He's been prepared on the other occasions. He's had breather masks, reinforced needle-proof armour, antidotes. This time he has nothing. The first time he met him he was unprepared."

"And what happened then?" asked J'onn, pre-empting the answer he did not want.

"…" began Alfred, "Suffice to say, he was not well."

There was a short silence whilst the group pondered the meaning of this revelation. When they had met Batman he was fairly experienced at his job, and so the thought of him once being inexperienced was one that had never crossed their minds. It had certainly never came to their attention that the almighty Black Bat could feel fear. It just served to remind them that he was human, a fact they often forgot.

"We have to find him."

***

He walked down the cave, each step taking him little more than a centimetre towards the tiny distant lights that had attracted his glazed gaze. His entire body shuddered every time his heavy, powerful leg pulled him towards the twinkling targets that sat in the isolated twilight. The cave slowly began to change shape and size, with only the hazy swirling golden lights to signify the alteration.

The sharp, snappy shapes shot across in front of him with decreasing regularity as he approached the overbearing lampposts. The tiny black bats faded into a subdued fear as the new one took hold and shook his entire body, forcing it to its knees in the middle of a cold, secluded and sad alley. The familiar corpses lay before him, blood and rain seeping through his thick black armour that had turned to flimsy woollen trousers.

His tears had all but dried up and the memory of the alley had never quite left him as he would often revisit it. Though, this time was very different. He was no longer in control. He wouldn't wake up from the nightmare, or be snapped from the trance by a warm familiar voice. At least, any warm familiar voice in this reality was none that he could trust, none that was real, none that would choose to help him.

"Oh Dear Lord." exclaimed the first of several familiar voices.

The fearful creature looked up, blue eyes awash in a red sea of strained, tearless eyes. The tall, kind man approached with arms open, wearing a safe, reliable black uniform. Underneath the glasses, two saddened, sympathetic eyes peered into the Bat's soul and saw a pain within that, for want of the world, could never be healed. The Bat stood up, in a second, removing himself from the past into what he believed to be the present.

A sudden and deafening sound echoed throughout the narrow, wet and rainy alley. Batman looked around, sharp eyes seeking the source before being drawn to the victim. The officer fell forwards, dying in a single and bloody manner. The Bat had whispered the name before he had fallen forwards and had leapt over to him with the speed of a demon. The distant memory of being infected with a Madman's Gas of Terror shimmered just below the waters of recognition.

"Gordon," called the frantic hero as he failed to get a response from the apparently dead Commissioner, "Gordon?" a further lack of response received, "No. You can't be. I'm sorry, Jim. It's my fault. Again."

Blame coursed through the bloody red veins faster than the poison ever could. Somehow, every time a step was taken forwards, a force pushed them back five. No matter what he did, no matter how hard he tried, the difference he made was minimal. He couldn't stop people dying. He couldn't stop fires burning. He couldn't do anything. He was causing the problems, his sharp black figure that cut through the night sky like a God of the Night.

"Now, now, Sir," said another warm voice, "How about you come back to the Manor, and I get a cup of tea on, hmm?"

A brief smile appeared on the Batman's face before being cut down as a brutal, bloody weapon cut down the trusted man just metres away from the last victim. Rage, fear, horror and pain burned within the Black Creature who was unable to understand or even make sense of what was going on or how. One thing he knew, as the message engraved itself on his heart, _it was all his fault_.

The weak, shaking hands turned to fists as fear turned into a temporary burst of incomprehensible rage that shook his entire frame with more vigilance than an earthquake may shake the buildings upon which its point of origin is. However, the explosion quickly cooled over, forming a thick layer of fertile ground, ready for fear to be sown once more and flourish. Two small beads of blue peered at the floor, whose shape and texture changed every time the black shutter fell. The golden, white and ghostly lights blinded him as they struggled to maintain the illusion.

Something was fighting inside. Something was forcing the fear, the poison, back. This power was not beating down the self-blame, as it very much agreed with it, but it did seek the fear and it did fight it. This war became clear quickly as the Batman stood up, back suddenly straight, limp suddenly gone, glaze suddenly gone, and walked towards the glistening white, padded exit of the alley. The exit was guarded by a hideous creature of straw and fear who claimed he was a God.

"How do you do this?" it screamed, "You _always _do this!"

"I'm determined."

"No, there's something more," it snapped, "You can't be human."

"I am."

"Well," it retorted, "This is as far as you go."

"I don't think so."

The bedraggled, untidy creature lolloped towards him like a joyful mutt. Its golden coat shimmered in the light that changed with every second from glaring white to calm twilight. On the underside of the monster's left wrist sat a canister which seemed to leak an odious green gas of evil whereas the right held an intricate contraption of pure golden liquid whose only implication of evil lay within the occasional sliver of gangrene that fluttered under the light's gaze.

The Bat's reactions had been dramatically damaged and so the straw bear managed to stab its five needle-precision claws into his right forearm. Batman staggered backwards, brain struggling to recognise whether the searing pain from the wound and the burning sensation flooding his veins deserved his immediate attention or not. As his world began to plunge into darkness, whilst the golden lights were still prattling and swirling about in his field of vision, he took a step towards the God.

"Why?!" it yelled, "Why do you do this?! How!?"

Unable to say anything else, the Batman replied with, "Shut up." before whacking the God unconscious and falling into a deep drug-induced hallucination of fear which an eager actor could take advantage of.

***

J'onn had recognised the alley from the fear his mental connection had relayed to him. He knelt beside the turning point of a young boy's life and looked around. Perhaps he had more to learn about the Dark Knight than he had thought he had to. It was becoming clear that Batman had given him a route involving his history, as J'onn was the only one with easy access to the information.

He sighed and examined the delicate glass bat statue on the floor, marvelling that it had not shattered by the harsh environment in which it had chosen to live. It was a tiny thing, its wings not yet clipped by aggressive street creatures. He moved to pick it up but felt a sudden force turning his mind against the decision. The breakable object stayed where it was, apparently content and willing.

**A/N: Apologies for the late update. As I've mentioned before, my German Exchange Partner was here. She's gone now though so I should be okay to update more regularly!**

**Thought I'd mention that I really struggled with this chapter. Fear is a lot harder to write than pain. Hope it lives up to the expectations and standards you expect.**

**Thanks to everyone who's continuing to read and review, or even just follow the story. It is appreciated. Also, does anybody ever read these notes? (Just out of curiosity).**


	8. Die Lüge

Coalition

Chapter Eight: Die Lüge

'A heap of dust alone remains of thee' Alexander Pope

"Well, Clayface, old bud," exclaimed the Joker, voice dripping with sick laughter, "Looks like it's your turn to torment our little friend! Have fun!!"

The creature took a step forward. Its delicate, pinkish skin had long since been contorted by cruel chemicals. His armour was as hard, dry and heavy as the substance to which he owed his name. His body took a wholly brown shade which seemed to dwell upon a bright orange colour in the dim light that occasionally danced upon it. The monster's eyes, visible beneath the chemically disfigured face, were blue and glistening for a short while with a sadness.

"Uh," said the Joker, sensing a sudden lack of enthusiasm from the great brute, "Clayface?"

"Hmm?" asked the surprisingly high, light and human voice of the tall, wide and monstrous creature.

"Do you know why you're here?" sighed the Joker, who, once the creature had nodded, continued, "Do you know why _he _is here?" he asked signalling to the hunched black figure in the room and again Clayface nodded, "THEN GET TO WORK!!!"

The terrific voice, altered suddenly from relaxed mockery to violent anger, forced Clayface towards the large door. The chemical creature looked towards the tiny terrified rodent that sat in a corner, hunched over, with sympathetic eyes before memory served up the dish his destructive desire craved. The reason for his hatred of the rodent burned its significance onto his heart as he altered his own appearance to hurt the creature of his discontent more.

In fact, he pondered, perhaps altering his appearance once was too good. Perhaps, he concluded, it would be better if he divided himself into six significant souls and entered with a look of extreme concern. With the Scarecrow's fear toxin still circulating around in the man's blood, his mind would probably create an ideal scenario for Clayface's six separate bodies to take advantage of. His idea, the incarnation of his thoughts, were greeted with claps by his fellow inmates.

"Genius!" applauded one.

"I almost feel sorry for him." regretted another.

"Ooh, I might _actually _let Harley see this," exclaimed the Joker, turning around in his seat to bark, "HARLEY! Are you done yet?"

"Ninety-five, ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-"

"HARLEY!!!"

Harley's head shot upwards faster than the Joker's newly polished bullets could fly through the air. She had been trying very hard to complete her newly assigned task but the shout had rendered her counting irrelevant as she had forgotten what number she was on. Her innocently sweet face stared up at the psychopath with wide, loving eyes. The devil was tapping his feet and was not impressed with her slow reaction time.

"Are you done yet?" he snapped harshly.

"Not yet puddin'!" she exclaimed cheerfully.

"How long does it take to dip five magazine's worth of bullets in poison one hundred times?" he shouted, as though it were the simplest task in the world.

"What're you doing, Joker?" asked one of the conscious Arkham inmates.

"I'm not doing anything," he replied innocently, "She's the one lacing all of my bullets with a weak dose of poison."

"Then why bother getting her to polish them in the first place?" asked another.

"Why not?" shrugged the Joker.

They all moved towards the window to watch as the six Clayfaces entered the room in their incredibly realistic disguises. They entered silently and the huddled black blot in the corner didn't seem to recognise their entry; yet another thing that would make the Bat uncomfortable. The Joker watched with morbid fascination. The others had rarely seen the Batman like this. The Joker hadn't but somehow he knew, he just knew, that it had happened before.

A part of him, somewhere, deep within, burned with frustration and anger. He was the Batman, what was he playing at, hiding, curling up in the corner of a brightly lit room like a five year old? However this section of his soul was cordoned off by a thick, black barrier of clustering, swarming bats: a barrier of fear. He was faintly aware of someone entering the room but the instinct had been silenced swiftly by what little logic leapt to the conclusion that it was the fear toxin.

His entire body shivered from the mental illusion cast by the sickly green compound that refused his mind clarity. Despite leaning against a soft, warm and padded wall, his body told him it was the cold, wet and jagged corner of a cavernous lair. Though, occasionally, his mind would slip back into reality in a glistening fog of golden light and remind him he was in a far worse place. It was the third time this occurred when the condition finally stuck.

"Oh my God!"

"Batman?"

"Bats!"

"I told you he was here."

The Batman, for want of all his will, managed to keep his head buried in the two thick muscular arms that sandwiched it. A part of him knew it was a trick, somehow concocted by the now unconscious Scarecrow. If he looked up, he knew they'd be horribly cut down by an unseen force that he would be unable to stop despite all his strengths. It made him feel powerless and helpless; it served to remind him how pointless his purpose sometimes was. It would never stop him though, not whilst there was life in him.

"Batman," whispered a voice, "It's okay. We're here."

A warm, a beautifully warm hand pressed against his armour, touching the skin where the dark shield had been sliced open. He lifted his head before logic could convince him otherwise and stared into familiar blue orbs. His face relaxed and a slight smile sneaked onto his face before falling back into its business-as-usual state. Though the fear toxin still pumped its way throughout his body, a small pang of hope and relief managed to feel its way into his heart.

"Thank God you're alive, Bats!" exclaimed the Flash, whose red costume seemed to be a slightly different shade underneath the intensive white light beaming down from the ceiling.

"How did you find me?" asked Batman, staying where he was for the time being.

"Here, I'll help you up." suggested Hawk Girl, walking over and helping Wonder Woman help the Batman to his feet.

Batman observed that they were being far rougher than he had expected. They pressed, somehow knowingly, against delicate scabs on his arms as they lifted him. Similarly, when supporting him and holding up his back, they pressured the exact position where his ribs had broken. Even when he had grunted or winced from the pain their movements were inflicting, they did not react. Briefly, the pang of fear leapt to his throat. What if they weren't the League? What if it was an illusion? Or a trap?

Realising a sudden danger that they were not in, he pushed Wonder Woman and Hawk Girl off, informing them that he was okay and that he'd dealt with worse before. Annoyance, rather than concern, seemed to glaze over their slightly irregularly coloured eyes. Batman sighed, ignoring the ball of fear that was tightening in his stomach, and leant against the warm-cold, jagged-padded cave-wall. The creature of fear in his stomach crushed the ball with its cold hands, forcing a wave of nausea to flood his senses.

"Are you suure you're okay?" asked the Green Lantern, uncharacteristically slurring the 'u' in 'sure'.

"I'm fine," he snapped aggressively just two seconds after taking a sharp breath of air in. He was fighting off the nausea in his stomach and the dizziness that blurred everything within his field of vision, contorting everything into a golden swirl of colourless light, "Just… tell me how you found me."

There was an uncharacteristic pause from the entire group. The fear toxin worked in cooperation with the instinctive fear that was beginning to rear its cautious head. Batman tried furiously to focus his blurring, bright vision to get a better idea of what was going on but the attempt was futile. They never took this long to respond to one of his questions unless they were concerned or confused, and from the fear-contorted vibes he was picking up, they were neither.

"Tell me!" he shouted, a sliver of fear and uncertainty ringing throughout the room.

"Look… Batman… it's just that…" began Superman.

"Just what?" he snapped, unable to focus on whom he was trying to talk to, "It's a simple question."

"Something went wrong." explained J'onn.

"Wrong?" he asked, "What are you talking about?"

Confusion overtook fear and curiosity. Batman began to slide down the smooth-serrated surface, falling back down to the ground. His head rolled to the side and rested on his left shoulder, as he was unable to hold up the weight of his own head. Exhaustion had kicked in and the fear toxin had rendered him so hopelessly confused that he was unable to even recognise that it was the combination of dizziness and tiredness that was responsible for his sudden loss of energy.

"Gotham's gone." explained the Flash.

"Gone?" asked Batman, able to raise his heavy head for all of two seconds before it fell onto his other shoulder, "It's one of the largest cities in America. It can't have just 'gone'."

"You were never captured. The Coalition was working to destroy Gotham, not you. There was never any call from the Police," explained Hawk Girl, "You vanished."

"Vanished?" he asked. Batman shook his head wildly but the movement was so slow as to appear to barely move at all. He managed to regain control of his head but his eyes kept drifting around the room following a flurry of golden light that blinded them. His mind fought for sense over the ball of fear that had turned to something far more dangerous, "I was here all the time. They caught me. I left you a message. He was planning something else."

"It was never real, Batman," said Wonder Woman, leaning down beside him and somehow refusing to say his name even though she knew it, "Nothing happened to you."

"My injuries. They caused them," he replied, "How can you tell me they're not real? I can feel them. They hurt. And the Scarecrow's toxin. It's gone past the stage of fear. I need the antidote."

"They never came near you," explained Superman, apparently frantic that the message wasn't getting through, "Scarecrow was never here."

"Then how am I injured?" he snapped.

The League fell silent and the green toxin within worked on a tiny, tiny segment of a deep-seated fear to temporarily clear the Bat's blinded, confused and poisoned eyes. On the floor before him, ghostly devices of torture sat. Blood stained their sharp edges and strips of black armour were scattered around the room lying next to similarly inconsistent droplets of blood. The Batman saw all of this before the fear fell once again into the process of poisoning and destroying his mind.

"What?" he asked, "What's all that? It wasn't there before."

"Bats," began Flash, "You vanished after the announcement on the News."

"What announcement?"

"Gordon's dead."

A crack stained the smooth surface of the delicate glass statue.

***

"We're wasting time!" exclaimed Diana, pacing the cave.

The League had been ordered to regroup in the cave. Catwoman had, of course, been excluded from the party as she would undoubtedly take advantage of the opportunity to uncover a piece of top secret identity information or sabotage something. Thus, she had been, against her will, tied to a metal pole on the top of a building with some of the Green Lantern's 'green-space-magic' rope, as she had called it. It was Alfred who had called them back and the entire League was anxious as to why.

"Calm down," reassured Alfred, "We need to collate data. Wherever Master Bruce is, whatever he's going through, I'm sure ten minutes extra will be fine."

"So what are we collating?" asked the Flash.

"Well," began Alfred, "You've found all of the clues, yes?"

"How did you know?" asked the Flash, bewildered.

"You don't whisper quietly enough," he explained, "And the radios are quite sensitive."

"Oh."

"So, what location did it give you?"

"The Iceberg Club."

"Okay, I'll mark that down on the computer's map." stated Alfred moving over towards the computer terminal.

The League fell into a sort of awkward silence as Alfred typed away on the terminal. The pressure placed on each of the keys produced a sound which echoed throughout the entire cave, occasionally sounding at the same time as the bats' squeaking and shuffling or the shattering of a droplet of water as it fell upon the floor beneath it. Diana's footsteps echoed powerfully around the cave as she paced it. Each time the heels of her boots collided with the floor, the cave shook with fear.

"Don't suppose he has a coffee machine around here?" asked the Flash.

The statement sparked the eruption of a couple of chuckles which silenced for all of fifteen seconds the intensely unnerving sounds of the cave. After the brief spate of laughter, the group fell silent once more. They wondered how Batman was doing, if he was safe, how injured he was, if he was even lucky enough to be injured and not worse. They'd known him for a while but they had never been dragged to Gotham by _him_. Some had gone as a result of politics and/or local supervillains escaping their usual terrain but none had gone to Gotham at request by Batman.

"Ooh," exclaimed Alfred, "That's weird."

The League ran, flew and leapt over to the monitor to wonder in awe at what had surprised the usually unsurprisable Alfred. They looked up to see a computer notification message. It was a small message notifying the user that the input of that point on the map had unlocked one sixth of a video file. The group frowned slightly. What did it mean? Was there a second video message? Perhaps one telling them it was all a prank and that he's really on holiday in Spain? Or was it a message telling them something a whole lot more serious?

"What's a WMV file?" asked Wonder Woman and Hawk Girl, their lack of technological expertise clear in their confusion.

"A type of video file," replied Alfred, before spinning around in his seat and stating, "Told you it was a good idea to collate."

***

"And here I was thinking Clayface was a bad actor," said the Joker, "Guess he _can_ act if you give him the right motivation."

"He must have more trust in them than he thinks." observed a deeply analytical voice, referring to Batman and the Clayface-League.

"Not necessarily," grunted a barely awake voice, "True."

"Ah!" exclaimed the Joker, "You're awake Scarecrow!"

"I hadn't noticed," he spat aggressively, "Anyway, he's got a ridiculously high dose of fear toxin in his system. It should have made him lose his mind by now but he's got some sort of immunity from a previous attack."

"So Clayface isn't a good actor?" asked Harley.

"How many bullets have you got left Harley?" hissed the Joker.

"Couple of hundred, Puddin'. Why?" she queried.

"I suggest you stop making intelligent observations and get on with what I told you to!" he snapped.

"So," stated another, "Batman's still hallucinating?"

"Probably."

"Probably?"

"Either that or the dose has turned into a poison that'll eat away at his sanity."

"Nice."

"Not really."

Batman looked up, eyes raw and red from the couple of tears he managed to obscure from their view. He didn't want them to know he cared for Gordon. In fact, they were practically best friends, especially since Harvey's 'accident'. Guilt pulled at his heart. It was probably the psychopaths, getting to Gordon because Jim knew him. Perhaps he'd still be alive if it hadn't have been for the Bat's crusade against Gotham's corruption. A heavy sigh pulled what little threads there were of Batman back together.

"We need to get you to a doctor," stated Wonder Woman, "You're hurt."

"By myself apparently," he retorted. Upon Wonder Woman's approach, he held up a hand and fought off the dizziness for long enough to be able to hold his head up and continue, "You can't seriously expect me to believe you."

"We don't wanna' believe it either, Bats." explained the Flash, gesturing wildly with the hands that normally remained on his hips.

"You need to see a psychiatrist, Batman," began an oddly coloured J'onn, "You're not well."

"If Gotham _is _gone, not that I believe you," he began glaring, "Then there isn't a facility in the world strong enough to hold me."

"Look," explained Superman, whose voice was turning into that of a child's under intense strain that had never happened before, "You need to let us help you."

Batman sighed. His ribs unleashed a flurry of flames in anger before falling silent beneath the deep, resounding groans that his throat had to utter in order for him to struggle to his feet. He held himself in place by grasping the sharp-soft padding of the cave walls. His arm muscles quivered under the pressure and he'd never felt so weak in his entire life. Mentally and physically frustrated, he cleared his mind in order to stare at the League. They were different.

"You're going to die," snapped an unfamiliar voice before the familiar voice of the Green Lantern spoke out, "Unless you let us help you."

"I've survived worse than this without you," stated Batman simply and calmly, "What makes you think I need your help? Just point me towards the exit and get out."

"We're not going anywhere without you," commanded Superman with an unnecessarily aggressive voice, "You can either come quietly or make a fuss."

Batman paused. He pushed himself off from the wall. A small, short but sudden burst of energy blocked off the poison. He stood as he normally would. His torn, battered, shredded black cloak fluttered around him like protective bats despite there being no wind. His devastated black armour glistened darkly where reopened wounds released their refuse and stank profoundly where the bloody disgrace had dried to form red-brown flakes. His deep blue eyes sat amidst an ocean of red.

"You know this isn't a fair fight," he taunted, "I should back down…"

"You surrender?" asked J'onn, barely believing it.

"If I," he continued, a slight smile sneaking onto his stained face, "were you."

The League charged forward at the same time at speeds he knew weren't right.

***

"So, once you've uncovered all of your clues, contact me _immediately_," said Alfred, staring at the Flash when placing significant intonation on 'immediately', before continuing, "And I'll type it in. Once the complete file is available, I'll feed the sound into your radios. Hopefully, the message will tell us what to do."

"Right." affirmed Superman.

"How is he J'onn?" asked Wonder Woman, turning to the Martian Manhunter.

J'onn paused. Batman had temporarily cleared his mind of the poison and was successfully ignoring/blocking/working through the pain signals his nervous system informed him of. Thus, the mental relay J'onn was receiving was perfect in its clarity. He was pretty sure it was one of the few things the League most certainly did not need to know about. Least of all because Batman seemed to be enjoying whacking Clayface-Superman and Clayface-Flash's heads together, which J'onn hated to admit even _he _would find quite amusing.

"He's… uh…," said J'onn, struggling to find the appropriate words, "Not doing too bad."

The League were confused for all of five seconds by the Martian's cryptic messages before they shrugged, said their goodbyes and left. The Martian remained for a bit longer, choosing to keep Alfred company for a slightly more extended length of time. Alfred got up out of his seat and moved towards J'onn, as though sensing that there was more to what J'onn said than initially perceived.

"Not bad?" asked Alfred.

"Clayface is pretending to be us." explained J'onn.

"Ah," sniggered Alfred, "I understand."

J'onn nodded and left, leaving Alfred to snigger in the relative comfort of the cold cave.

***

"Well," began the Joker as Clayface-Flash flew past the window, "I don't actually think I've ever seen Old Batty Boy this happy before."

"Who'd 've guessed he'd enjoy wailing on his own mates." stated another as Clayface-J'onn charged into a carefully placed fist.

"He never was one to enjoy help," analysed another, "Or even ask for it."

This statement was followed shortly by Clayface-Superman being thrown into Clayface-Hawk Girl who was brandishing her electrified mace. The effect of this was that Clayface-Superman sandwiched the mace between them and electrocuted the pair of them. Clayface-Wonder Woman used this small gap of opportunity to charge at Batman who stunned her with his cape before side stepping a charge by Clayface-Flash who proceeded to tackle the stunned Amazon into the far side of the room.

"Shame they aren't the real ones." declared the Joker.

"How come, puddin'?" asked Harley.

"It would make them look even stupider than Clayface makes 'em look."

Whilst four of the Clayface-League were out for the count, Clayface-Green Lantern and Clayface-J'onn remained conscious. Batman didn't seem bothered by this. Clayface-J'onn charged, as though unable to understand that that particular strategy just doesn't work, and fell to the floor as the Bat somersaulted over his head and placed two heavy boots in the centre of his back. Clayface-Green Lantern tried to punch as Batman came up from the previously delivered blow but missed as the Black Shade sidestepped and winded him.

Once unconscious, the six Clayfaces melted back into the original who was promptly dragged out of the room. Batman felt the exhaustion straight after the last blow, falling to hands and knees before rolling over onto his back. His muscles, now being listened to, roared in anger at his stupid tricks and his ribs were just as explosively furious. Of course, his mind now distracted by the bombardment of pain and tiredness, the poison managed to seep back and contort his vision into golden flurries of confusion.

_Okay, _he mentally reasoned before thought became infected by the fear toxin, _I've exhausted whatever energy reserves I'd managed to collect, I've allowed the poison to take over my mind again and I've possibly opened up any wounds that had managed to scab, _a small smile brightened his face,_ Oh well, it was worth it._

**A/N: Thanks to Night Monkey and AZ-woodbomb for their kind reviews. And thanks to everyone who (I think) is reading this. **

**This chapter was fun to write but I'm worried that maybe it didn't live up to your mental trauma wishes, let me know what you think. I can put more in for the next chapter.**

**Also, if anyone wants, I can translate the chapter titles. Thanks again for reading.**


	9. J’ai Une Énigme

Coalition

Chapter Nine: J'ai une énigme

'I have nothing to declare except my genius' Oscar Wilde

"J'onn?" burbled the radio incoherently, "J'onn?"

"Yeah?" asked the Martian Manhunter, able to identify the voice as, "Superman?"

"Could you come over here?" he asked, "I have a small problem."

"Sure." stated J'onn, shrugging off the many reasons why.

Flying over Gotham, J'onn observed that occasional shivers of fear reconnected his mental connection with the Bat. Apparently, he deduced, the blood in Batman's body had yet to be cured of the venomous fear toxin. Whilst the toxin had more or less turned into a poison, with the intention of destroying what sanity the Bat had, it continued to have its physical effects on his body. The symptoms were as so: shivering, cold sweat, increased pulse rate, bleary or unfocused eyes, rapid breathing, hallucinations and dizziness. J'onn had had to weaken the mental connection for fear of assimilating the symptoms.

As he approached Superman's location, found through the weak mental signals he was able to identify as belonging to the Kryptonian, he noticed something on the floor beside him. He was situated on the roof of one of the tallest buildings in Gotham, the size of which dwarfed that of Wayne Tower's. The building was new, shiny and glass paned, a move that made sense when taking notice of the building's two year age. Three years ago, a glass building in Gotham would have been suicide. Even now, the move was questionable.

J'onn landed silently on the cold, grey roof, his blue boots padded in such a way that his very touch went unnoticed by the building. Superman sensed him though and turned around to greet him. A fake, lying smile sat upon the fellow alien's face; he was trying to feign optimism but was clearly very concerned about Batman's condition. J'onn replied with his own fake smile, responding perfectly to the uniquely human action. He walked forward, pausing by Superman's side in order to examine the winded villain on the floor.

"What're you staring at?" it spat viciously, "Never seen a genius before?"

The man on the floor was slim and delicate-looking, lanky and tall. A deep enigmatic purple shirt covered his chest and this shirt was hugged by a sick green suit jacket intermittently coated in forest green question marks. This unusual design was copied precociously by the tailored trousers, tight tie and well-cared for hat. In his left hand was one half of a broken black walking stick whose other end lay on the floor with a question mark emblem on the top. The area around his eyes lay hidden beneath a mysterious mask of deep purple. His hair was short and matched his unwieldy and slightly unhinged personality perfectly.

"He won't even tell me his name," responded Superman, "Keeps reciting some kid's nursery rhyme."

"It's quite obvious that you're an alien, you know," explained the Riddler, "You can't even recognise one of the most widely known fairy tales on Earth."

"Who are you?" asked J'onn.

"I've tried that," interrupted Superman, "He doesn't give straight answers."

"My name is Edward Nigma," he began, "But my enemies call me 'The Riddler'."

"Batman's spoken about you before," stated J'onn, remembering one of the many times he had used him as an excuse to avoid coming to the one annual date when the entire League meet up in the Watchtower for tea, "He doesn't like you."

"He doesn't like anyone." stated Superman.

"From what I hear," stated the Riddler slyly, "Batman's left you some clues to find out the information you need."

"We need to know where he is," snapped Superman, "Can't you just tell us where he is?"

"No."

"Why not?" asked J'onn curiously.

"For one, I hate his guts and I can't see it as a bad thing that he's being shredded somewhere," replied the Riddler, "Secondly, if I can unravel his clues, I can prove I'm more intelligent than him and thirdly, I have no intention of sabotaging the Coalition."

"Okay," stated Superman, "I'm confused."

"Unsurprising, at best."

J'onn paused. The moon hung high in the sky, reflecting a yellowy golden glow from a hidden, obscured sun. The entire situation reeked of something unseen. It would be just like Batman to have the clues send them in the wrong direction. It would be just like the Joker to have something else up his sleeve, something involving Gotham City. It would explain why the Riddler wanted to help them and _not _sabotage the Coalition. Then again, J'onn recalculated, Batman would probably have stopped any threat against Gotham before he walked into the trap.

"So you'll help us?" asked J'onn.

"If you want to see it that way, yes." replied the enigma.

The Martian Manhunter simply nodded and helped the Riddler to his feet, Superman watched the entire thing with deeply cynical eyes. Superman was one of the few League members to have had previous run-ins with a few of Batman's adversaries and his cynicism, therefore, was well-placed. Even J'onn, who had only ever heard of these stories, had to admit that the villains Batman faced on a regular basis far outshone those of other major villains. Particularly due to their unusually colourful and insane nature.

The Riddler, far from impressed with the aid provided to him by the Martian, brushed his hand on his trouser leg as though it contained some disease that needed to be deleted. Taking charge, much to the dislike of the two superheroes present, the green-suited inmate demanded the current progression of the heroes and set about work immediately, thinking out loud and drawing incoherent lines all over their maps. They watched in fascination.

***

They watched in fascination at the Black Bat hunched in the corner once more. They had been stunned minutes earlier by his sudden outburst of energy in the face of Clayface but it had clearly drained what little energy he had managed to collect. His breathing had become significantly laboured and he would occasionally through his head back and gulp whatever poor air particles happened to be within range. From what the psychopathic group were able to make out, the short outburst had not only drained his energy reserves but also reopened a few of the scabbed wounds.

Purplish contusions were visible on some areas of his exposed, red stained skin from where the thick black armour had thinly been sliced open. A doctor would have had a nervous break down upon seeing the creature in the corner of the white-turned-red room. Splatters of blood could be seen staining the walls, the floor and, strangely, some sections of the room had not managed to escape the deadly disease of redness. Strained, raw, red glass coated the delicate blue orbs of the Bat's eyes. A delicate sigh turned heavy and burned the two powerful organs inside his chest.

His muscles roared out when he moved them, he had pushed them beyond what limits they had allowed him over the years and his mind was just about willing to follow suit. Sighing was the only thing he could do to minimise the toxin's effect of confusion on his mind. The sudden intake of oxygen and exhalation of carbon dioxide cleared his mind of the golden contortion for a few short seconds before the dizziness came back, overwhelming him and forcing his head back into the comfort of his arms. Mentally, he cursed himself. He'd dealt with worse before. Why was this time around making him feel so much worse?

_I've been in states worse than this before, _he told himself, _I'm sure. Or maybe I'm wrong. I can't remember. It must be the toxin, screwing with my head, I can't think completely straight. Have to hand it to him, he can make one hell of a fear toxin._

Whilst he was still displaying the symptoms, the toxin had changed its primary directive and was sending his body into confusion. His mind felt dizzy but his body was perfectly still and balanced. His heart felt as though it were pumping at the speed a snail moves but was in fact several levels above his resting rate. His body felt cold and dry but was boiling and sweating. There was the additional loss of focus and he found himself unable to recover his thoughts; a process which not only worried him, but also served to confuse him even more.

"Poor Batsy," stated the Joker, "I'd almost feel sorry for him. Almost."

"His resilience is certainly commendable." stated the drone.

"Not sure I'd say that," replied another, "I'd say he's as stubborn as a bull in a bad mood."

"I'm impressed you know how stubborn a bull in a bad mood is." retorted the droning boredom.

"It's a metaphor," spat the voice, "You're not supposed to take it literally."

"Make yourself clearer then." suggested another voice.

"Oi, Harley," hollered the Joker impatiently, "Are you done yet?"

"Nope!" replied Harley perkily.

"Are you _nearly _done?" questioned the psychopathic clown.

"Nope!"

"I'd consider hurrying up if I were you." stated the Joker, waving a knife around in his hand.

"Nice use of the subjunctive, Joker." smirked the Scarecrow, knowledgably.

"What's that?"

"I want my turn." shouted the strange figure.

"Sure," replied the Joker, "But you're gonna have to wait a couple of minutes."

"Why?" it queried.

"I want him to suffer a bit more first." replied the Joker illogically.

Within the comforts of the padded, bloody room, the Batman shuddered; faintly aware that somewhere, the devil had given him a few minutes of freedom in which to think.

***

"And you've been at this _how _long?" asked the Riddler, whose face held upon it a look of such disgust and self-satisfaction, that it was almost unbearable to look at.

Superman's mouth had fallen slightly ajar. Within twenty minutes, the Riddler had uncovered all of the Batman's clues. The ease with which he had done it was disturbing in itself, he would be read the clue or shown the clue and after several hushed, incoherent whispers, he had discovered the location of the next clue. He had, naturally, been quite unhappy about being carried through Gotham's skyways from one building to the next but he had had very little say in the matter as Superman was in a pretty foul mood from the constant streams of critical dialogue flowing from the slim green-suited figure.

"I don't know Gotham very well," replied Superman sharply, "I couldn't have been expected to know where that last clue was."

The Martian Manhunter leant over to examine the map the super-powered Kryptonian was hiding behind his back. A small smile curved his normally stony complexion. The map had significant landmarks named with large arrows pointing towards them. J'onn was going to open his mouth to mention this fact but thought better of it, being as the Riddler had enough ammunition as it was without the directions on the map being emphasised to a point that would seem ridiculous.

"You should have known the name of the hospitals," retorted the Riddler, "Two were blown up last month, and one of those was blown up less than two years ago."

"Gotham blows up a lot doesn't it?" asked J'onn, noticing the common factor between Gotham having many criminals and Gotham blowing up a lot.

"That's an understatement," replied the Riddler, "If a building doesn't blow up at least a year, someone's not doing their job properly."

To this, the two garishly coloured superheroes fell silent despite facing the equally fashion-blind green villain. It was little wonder Gotham was always being criticised for running through its budget – given in January – before May. Surprisingly, crimes in Gotham were less reported nationally than they should be; presumably because the media got bored after the hundredth kidnapping, hostage-taking, blowing-up-of-important-buildings and general criminal activities. The two superheroes sighed before Superman turned to J'onn with a decision.

"I should let A-" Superman paused to change his sentence when the Riddler's ears perked up interested, "Our _contact_ know the latest development."

J'onn nodded and watched the Riddler as Superman walked off to the other side of the rooftop to avoid the keenly intrigued villain from eavesdropping. The Riddler seemed quite overtly frustrated by this and fidgeted frequently, as well as diving from left to right in an attempt to lip read Superman's half of the conversation which, as he saw it, may have contained wondrous facts and figures of interest. Instead, at each attempt, J'onn, with more pleasure than he should have had, stepped in front of the criminal's view, blocking it.

"Alfred?" asked Superman, one hand on the radio earpiece as though it made a difference of some sort, which it, insignificantly, didn't.

"Yes?" came the ever so slightly muffled by biscuit reply.

"Are you eating biscuits?" asked the Flash, eager to leap into any conversation more exciting than the political one he was being forced to listen to back on Arkham Island.

"No," replied Alfred, "Technically they're cakes."

"They sound like biscuits." snapped the Flash.

"Oh," responded Alfred, "That's just the radio feed. They're Jaffa Cakes if you must know."

"Aren't Jaffa Cakes biscuits?" asked the Flash.

"Don't be stupid," replied the Green Lantern, "Biscuits go soft, cakes go stale."

"Really?" asked Diana, "I thought it was the other way around."

"GUYS!" exclaimed Superman, not fully believing that superheroes were having this conversation when one of their teammates was locked up somewhere with his worst enemies, "Please!"

A series of 'sorry' burbled over the radio.

"Thank you," responded Superman, "Alfred, I found a location."

"Superb!" announced Alfred, "Where?"

"Gotham Central."

"The hospital that got blown up last month?" asked Hawk Girl, recalling the name from somewhere.

"Indeed," replied Alfred, "Gotham Central has a bit of a record for blowing up."

"And to think every other city is lucky if something blows up once every two decades." stated Green Lantern satirically.

"Indeed." sighed Alfred before exiting the conversation to ponder.

Superman nodded, acknowledging something he had no need to. Hand removed from his radio, he walked over to the Green Alien whose shadow loomed over the Green villain whose eyes were alight with untoward curiosity. The two superheroes exchanged knowing glances before looking down upon the smirking snake who sat, equally knowingly, on the floor of the rooftop.

"Well?" he asked snappily, "What now?"

"Now we have to follow J'onn's clues." sighed Superman.

"Well," began the Riddler, "If he's even half as intelligent as he looks, it might actually be harder to solve these ones."

Glaring, the two heroes carried the Riddler through the grey skies towards the last clue J'onn had found before the League's meeting in the cave. As they soared through the air, J'onn took the time to strengthen his mental connection with the Batman. The dark mind was, as usual, hiding something, obscuring something behind a veil of some unreadable concoction of emotions. Sighing, the Martian wondered at the seemingly preposterous leap between humanity's utter simplicity and its infinite complexity.

***

Sitting in the corner, hunching in a protective ball, Bruce Wayne prayed that the fear toxin would fade away. Whilst it should have moved onto the process of obliterating the fragmenting glass house of his fragile state of mind, his iron-hard will kept forcing it back. Thus the yo-yo process from fear to vegetable continued as the poison flooded the corridors of his body. It was all he could do to prevent the tiny floodgates holding back the tsunami from completely shattering. Such weakness would be his downfall, he had told himself angrily.

_Give them ammunition, _he repeated, _and they'll shoot you. Give them an opening and they'll stab you. Give them your weaknesses and they'll destroy you._

The mighty and vast padded white door swung open with immense speed despite the sound it made suggesting otherwise. The tiny, screeching squeaks of the door as the metal hinges strained against the weight, sung terrifically into the white room. The hinges were crying out desperately but their deep screams were clunky; moving as if gears and pistons were controlling the sounds in a very haphazard and careless way. When the door was slammed shut, however, a chilling squeal echoed within the safety of the red stained room.

A sudden realisation stabbed the Bat in the stomach several seconds to late; a minute after the fear toxin had contorted the senses to a point of incoherency. His mind was transported to the cave, again but this time there was no assailant directly responsible for the explosion of fear in his stomach. Whilst the imaginary bats chattered above him, his mind acknowledged them as a part of his life and not something to fear. It was when he forced himself to stand to his feet and look ahead of him that the disguised devil revealed his heavenly silver platter.

His mouth quivered, trying to open, trying to form the words his mind, in its confused state, had made. Instead, it fell shut and his eyes shot wildly around the room, faintly aware of the golden slivers that followed them. Slight cracks in the floodgates leaked salty droplets onto his mask as a sense of incomparable relief briefly hid the apprehensive fear within his stomach. His mind had been fooled into believing it was safe, his instincts knew different but were brutally ignored.

A smirk gleamed upon the face of Stirk.

**A/N: Thanks to the people who are reading and who are reviewing. If I may, a request to people who are reading but not reviewing.**

**Even if it's once every five chapters, a review to let me know you're reading would be nice, even if you hate my guts, some form of 'yay' or 'nay' feedback would be beneficial.**

**Thanks again to everyone who's reading. **


	10. Der Wahnsinn

Coalition

Chapter Ten: Der Wahnsinn

'We first make our habits, and then our habits make us' John Dryden

Flash sighed miserably. There was a book he once saw in a shop and he thought for a long time about buying it as a birthday present for Batman before he realised that no one actually knew when Batman's birthday was. It was a book entitled, 'Gotham: 1001 Reasons Why It Sucks'. He figured that Batman may see the humorous side to it; either that or when the Flash's birthday came around, he'd be getting a technologically modified coffee machine – a coffee machine modified in such a way as to have a much higher chance of spraying thermonuclear liquid in his face.

It was whilst thinking about this book that Flash came to the conclusion that the one thing he hated most about Gotham were the two bickering would-be-politicians with whom he was in the same room as. Liz, a budding British psychologist, was arguing with Ed, the security guard, about the complexities and frequent stupidities of the British and American political system. Flash had heard his name at several points in the conversation but had chosen to pretend he was reading the instructions of the rogue coffee machine.

"Are you actually reading that?" asked Tom who wheeled himself over on the magnificent spinny-chair upon which he had parked himself for most of the evening.

"What do you think?" retorted Flash, with slightly more aggression than he had intended.

"I don't know," replied Tom simply, "That's why I asked."

"Sorry," he apologised, "No, I'm not reading it."

"Can't blame you for being crabby," responded Tom, "I never imagined you could argue about the role of the judiciary for an hour without running out of things to say."

"No, no," replied Flash, "Life's too cruel for that."

"Couldn't agree with you more."

"AS IF!" screamed Liz, "You can't seriously be suggesting that Britain is a juristocracy! Parliamentary sovereignty prevents any _supposed _higher authority from making decisions because the government can just overturn it! If anything, America is a juristocracy!"

"But now you're failing to realise that they can only declare something unconstitutional if it's taken to the courts," snapped Ed, "It happens a lot less often than your stupid education system likes to suggest it does!"

Tom and Flash exchanged identical expressions. Despite the superhero's face being mostly covered up by his bright red mask, Tom could easily translate from his deeply lifeless, bored eyes that he would soon die of boredom unless they escaped the nest of political jargon soon. It was a short two seconds later that Tom asked the question that would change their lives forever, "You wanna go for a walk?"

"Would I ever?" declared Flash, leaping to his feet with a sudden and quite expected jolt of energy before showing himself out of the door. Tom followed at a much slower pace and found himself surrounded by a visible red blur. Liz and Ed completely failed to notice the exit of the two elder males, even if they were older by only a couple of years.

Once outside the room, Tom pushed the door to as though it contained within it some form of torture so profoundly terrible that the large steel reinforced door may not have been able to hold it back. The two sighed huge flurries of relief as they walked down the corridor, immensely happy to have escaped the terrible series of events that may have occurred to them if they had stayed in the room to listen to the dreadfully laborious political debate.

***

Chattering calmly above his black pointy ears, the Batman groggily forced himself to his feet. His hands aided this movement by pushing up from the jagged-padded rock face behind him. Once on his feet, he limped over slowly to the silent silhouette whose name he knew through familiarity. The floodlights used to light up the cave-room glared down upon all of its four-many corners and crevices. A distinctly uncommon smile of relief, warmth and happiness sat upon the Bat's face.

"Welcome back," were the spoken words but, as the poison in his veins realised the sudden advantage they had, extra, more familiarised words were added to the statement, "Master Wayne, I trust you found your way back alright?"

"Yeah, thanks," he replied, nodding dumbly; his neck not functioning quite as fluidly as it normally would have. Within the cave-room, a table had appeared. He assured himself that it had always been there, in its sterile stainless silver way, but his mind briefly imagined a door opening and it being wheeled in by concerning characters. He ignored the dream-like thought and sat himself on the table, "Not doing too well though."

"Really?" asked an unfamiliar voice before the toxin leapt to cover the tracks, "Well, let's see what we can do about that then. What exactly happened?"

"Lots of cuts, lots of bruises, two broken ribs, possible internal bleeding, poisoned… twice," the Batman paused, "Doesn't sound too bad when I say it out loud."

"It's only going to get worse," began the twisted terror as the trusted voice took over, "If you don't let me treat it."

"Yeah, okay," said the Batman before lying himself down on the table, taking a deep breath and smiling slightly, "No anaesthetic?"

"No," laughed the insidious croak until the softer voice relieved it, "The last supply we ordered hasn't come in yet."

"Oh well," sighed the Batman, "I'm sure I can cope."

"I'm going to tie you down," it said, another continued, "Sir, so you don't hurt your good self."

"Or you," nodded Batman, allowing himself a rare chuckle, "Fine."

Briefly, foreign voices echoed around the room:

"_I can't believe it! Who'd 've thought Batsy trusted anyone this much!"_

"_Intriguing, I wonder who it could be."_

"_I didn't know he had friends."_

"_As if Stirk is having it this easy!"_

"_It's my toxin you know, it's still in him. It'll be reacting with Stirk's ability and completely lowering his mental defences. He might actually get himself killed unless Stirk screws this up."_

"_He will. He always screws stuff up. Can't help himself."_

Briefly, the blue orbs lit up in temporary horror. His brain automatically kicked into gear, fighting off the toxin but a new force had entered the battle and the cerebral mass in his skull was too weak and confused to fight off the both of them. Thus, his brain succumbed and returned itself to the relative safety of the dark, dank cave. Above him, Alfred smiled and lifted his scalpel. A scalpel of uncommon and dangerous size and shape.

Batman frowned, "Alfred?"

Stirk smirked.

***

"Soooo," began the Flash as the two walked down the sterile white yet Gothic and dark halls, "What's there to do around here?"

"Apart from drink coffee and talk?" asked Tom, "Nothing until the inmates get back."

Flash paused mid-corridor and turned to pear-shaped security guard. The curiosity was evident in his eyes. The area in which they stood was the rather empty Maximum Security Wing which had fallen into its rather common Mid-Max Security levels with the cells only having their steel reinforced metal and electrical current to keep the few inmates that were in Arkham Asylum inside their cells.

"What do you do when they're here?" asked the Flash.

"Exactly the same thing." he replied.

"Oh." stated the Flash, evidently downhearted. Clearly he was expecting to hear some sort of outrageous gossip or news that the security team actually had a hidden top-secret underground basement in which they had a bar and a pool table and every wondrous gaming console on the market. The news that none such cellar existed seemed to tear Flash's heart from his chest.

A silence then befell the two as they walked down the corridor. Their footsteps were deadened by the white sterile walls but within the high ceiling above them, each footfall echoed with terrific vibrations that shuddered throughout the visible Gothic architecture of the building. The silence was as scary as the sirens, Tom had informed the superhero. He had told him that when the sirens go off, at least you hear familiar screaming and shouting. When there aren't any sirens and someone's loose, no one gets the chance to shout and scream.

"BZZZ! SCREECH!"

Flash's hands, without his permission, leapt from his side to cover his ears as the roar of ringing bombarded his mind. The sound was so loud it was physically causing him pain and so his body convulsed and doubled over in response. Tom, terrified that something altogether more worse was happening, ran over to help the red-clad hero to the floor. Flash gritted his teeth; he became quickly aware that it was a radio feed coming from the Batman. It chose, he observed, pretty awful times to send messages.

"Are you sure that's a scalpel?" asked a familiarly deep voice.

"I can't believe he can't hear us!" wailed the clown, "That toxin of yours really is good stuff!"

"Thanks for noticing." drilled the reply sarcastically.

"So, is it true what they say about Stirk?" asked an unfamiliar voice.

"Depends on what you've heard." was the given reply.

"That he eats people's hearts."

"Oh, yeah, that's true."

"Well, what're we gonna do if he eats the Bat's heart?"

"He won't," snapped the Clown, "He'll work it out."

"Alfred, that's not a scalpel!" shouted the Batman, "Seriously, drop that thing!"

"I don't know, he sounds pretty convinced to me."

"_He'll work it out_." responded the Devil.

"ALFRED!" he cried out desperately, "ARGH!"

"BZZZ! SCREECH!"

The Flash looked up sharply, fear was so clear within his eyes that Tom found himself expressing the very same fear despite having no knowledge of what it was. The superhero leapt to his feet and started pacing like a madman on fire. All Tom could do was watch and listen to half of the panicked conversation which the Flash immediately started having over the radio.

"Did everyone get that feed?" asked Superman.

Before a reply could come, a frantic Alfred leapt onto the radio frequency, "J'onn! J'onn! Please, you have to tell him it's not me! Please. He _has _to know it _isn't_ me. Please. Help him. Rescuing him won't mean a thing if you can't save his mind."

There was a brief pause. The panic in Alfred's voice was concerning the entire group. They had never known him so worried. They had been severely disconcerted by the butler's earlier outbursts of uncommon behaviour but pleading and begging was certainly beyond anything they had ever known him do before. The concern was enough to put the reply off for an agonising two seconds.

"Of course." replied the Martian.

The conversation ended there as Alfred could be heard to walk quickly away from the terminal, as though a sudden grief had taken hold of him. The Flash sighed and bit his bottom lip, holding it tight between his powerful white sets of teeth. He didn't know what to think as his mind raced between the possibilities of the many things he could think. Concern, fear and confusion bled from him with so much potency that even Tom noticed it.

"Flash?" asked Tom, "Are you okay?"

"No," he replied, "No, I'm not."

The two walked along the corridor. Flash allowed Tom to place a hand of reassurance on his left shoulder. Flash's legs, visibly, were uncomfortable and odd in their movements and his entire frame was wobbling frantically in a desperate attempt to stay in a straight line. These attempts failed dismally on all accounts and so it was up to Tom's right hand to prevent the dazed superhero. There was a silence for a while as they walked along the corridor to the staff room. Or at least, there was until Tom's curiosity overtook him.

"What happened?" he asked, "This has got something to do with the Batman hasn't it?"

The Flash paused and turned to the insightful forty-something man. His eyes seemed slightly lost at what to do. It was as though the pendulum in his mind was swinging from telling Tom everything to telling him to 'get bent'. The pendulum eventually fell on the less aggressive option and remained there as the Flash paused to get his thoughts together, scrambled as they were by concern for his missing teammate.

"You have to promise not to tell anyone," stated Flash, "We'll know if you do."

Tom made a brief 'cross my heart' gesture.

"Batman went missing a while ago," explained the Flash solemnly and seriously, "The major inmates who escaped formed a coalition. They have him captive somewhere. We had fourteen hours to find him."

"How many have you got left?" he asked.

"Four."

"That's more than enough time!" exclaimed Tom.

"We've been looking for him for ten hours, trying to track him down through the clues he left in advance," responded the Flash, "So far we've only uncovered two."

Tom paused, "He's the Batman, he'll be fine. He's tough as titanium, that one."

***

His body exploded from the inside, bombarded by a sudden wave of pain and terror that he hadn't experienced for a very long time. Tears erupted from his eyes as the blue orbs darted about madly. His mouth was emitting a roar of such emotion that it was impossible to tell whether it was the pain from the wound or the pain of betrayal that had caused it. All of his muscles tensed suddenly and he tore one arm free of its restraints, whacking the trusted-disguised butler away.

Somehow this free hand, fumbling about as it was, managed to free his other bound limbs. His mouth slammed shut, causing his teeth to quietly sound their discontent, as he leapt off the table. He soon found himself leaning against a padded-wall-computer-terminal. His entire body was shaking. Weariness was beginning to eat away at him almost as fast as the fear and sting of betrayal could. He looked down sharply, ignoring the fact that the non-butler had arisen and was infuriated by the attack.

A brown handle sticking out of his chest was the only signal that something had perforated it. Surrounded by a thick sea of damaged black armour, the deadly silver blade had found little trouble in burrowing its way into his skin. The attack had been sudden, terrifying and shockingly aggressive. The knife had been plunged into his chest as one would fling a hammer at a wall in an attempt to obliterate it. It was vicious beyond compare and it had missed his vital organs by centimetres. Blood was welling up against the silver snake as though trying to fight it out.

With little care for the consequences, he pulled out the knife, screaming as he did. It hurt worse than the poison in some respects but at least he could think. At least he could form sentences in his head. He flinged the knife into the recesses of the cave-room and began to collapse into the wall-terminal. He looked at the wound and his gloved hand clasped it as a bloody fountain emerged from the confines of the black oceanic suit. Already, his loss of blood was becoming a significant and very deadly concern. A human, after all, only has eight pints of blood.

He raised his head and looked at the ceiling as his body slumped to the floor, decorating it with a puddle of the delicate reddish liquid that managed to shoot through the spaces in between his fingers. His breathing became laboured and his eyes began to blur and decorate themselves with bleary golden light. In the distance, he could see the assailant-Alfred approaching and picking up the bloody weapon as they did so. Fear overtaking mind, he tried to crawl backwards further into the terminal-wall only to find that there was no where to run to.

_And now, _he observed fearfully, _No __**one **__to run to._

"_Batman, Batman…"_

His mind immediately tried to fight off what he thought was a mental attack. Though, as time passed and the voice kept repeating his name, he realised that the voice was a familiar one. One he could listen to, but not one he could trust. With Alfred gone there was no one left he could even think about trusting. He slowly lowered his mental defences but closed his eyes to do so. A fatal mistake.

"ARGH!" he screamed.

The sliver of silver had tried to pierce his heart by slithering underneath his ribs. The Bat's black gloved hand had leapt from the wound to the hand of Alfred and pushed the hand back. Alfred had stumbled backwards and fallen, his face coated in blood from the wound Batman had stopped trying to protect in order to save his own life. Blood began to seep slowly from the newly created wound beneath the left hand side of his rib cage. He allowed his hands to fall to his side as the red river seemed to flow out indefinitely, causing his mind to slowly attempt to drift away into a sleep which he may very well never awake from.

"_Batman, Bruce, listen to me, please."_

"J'onn!" cried out a pained, sore and broken voice, "Help me!"

"_We will, we'll find you," _replied the Martian whose voice expressed a deep concern that the Bat was too terrified to try and recognise, _"I promise. But you must listen to me. That's not Alfred."_

"What?" he asked, in a suddenly hushed voice, watching with bleary eyes as his assassin approached once more, "I don't understand!"

"_Alfred's in the cave."_

"I know!! I am too!"

"_No you're not! It's the Scarecrow's fear toxin. It's whoever that inmate is in there with you! Please, you must focus. You're losing blood quickly and that man in there is dangerous. You have to snap out of it or we might not find you in time."_

"J'onn!" he cried, "I… I don't know what's happening! Please!"

"_You're a strong man, Bruce," _said J'onn, unable to find the right response to the Batman's pleas, _"You'll find a way."_

"J'onn!" he shouted, feeling the mental connection wane, "Don't go!"

"I can _smell_ it," said the hideous voice, attracting the Dark Knight's attention, "You reek of it."

The illusion faded. The white room returned, accompanied by a familiar villain.

"Cornelius Stirk?" asked Batman.

"All that adrenalin, that norepinephrine," sang Stirk wildly, "I can smell it on you!"

Beneath him, a puddle of thick, red sticky coagulated blood attempted to stick itself upon his powerful armour. His hands were covered in the blobby warm mess and in the distance he could see the madman approach with the knife once more. Frowning with a fury he had not felt for a long long time, he leapt to his feet. Blood spurted out uncontrollably from his savagely deep wounds and he launched his foot into Stirk's chin, knocking him unconscious with a single brutal blow.

The blow unbalanced him and sent him into the ground at the same speed as his assailant who was carried out of the room faster than he cared to notice. He lay on the floor, resting and allowed his wounds to bleed, gently applying pressure to ease the ferocity with which he was loosing blood. Though, a handy side effect of the blood loss was that he had managed to rid himself of a sufficient amount of the toxin so as for it to have no effect whatsoever. All he had to worry about from that point on was blood loss.

That and the very strange man who had just entered the room.

**A/N: Many people were intrigued by my choice of Stirk. I hope this chapter has changed people's views about the villain because he's an interesting one that gets barely any limelight.**

**Thanks to everyone who reviewed last time. Sorry about the wait for this chapter. It was half-term so I was chilling and preparing for my AS exams.**


	11. Le Secret Cache

Coalition

Chapter Eleven: Le secret cache

' 'Tis strange – but true; for truth is always strange; stranger than fiction' Lord Byron

Hawk Girl's face was a picture of complete and utter self-contentment. She could feel, through some higher instinctive knowledge, that she was nearing the end of the bread-crumb trail of clues left to her by the captive caped crusader. Her wings pounded the air to the beat the night clubs in the belly of Gotham belted out. She found her body swaying from side to side slightly, lost briefly within the depths of success. This was until a second radio feed bled through the communication link from the Bat.

It was down-heartening to put it in levels of under-exaggeration that, quite frankly, were ridiculous. Hearing the confusion and the mental anguish in his voice was so clear that it was scary; no one had ever heard him that freaked before. Then again, not a single person in the search party could claim to know him well enough to understand how fragile he really was. Only Alfred, who seemed equally as delicately balanced on the see-saw of sanity, understood the emotional ball of mysteriousness that was Bruce Wayne.

Furthermore, the concern that such feeds caused was equally as clear when examined in terms of medical health. Given the lack of context received from the feed, it was supremely difficult to unravel how minor or major whatever injury he was inflicted was. Particularly as the roars of pain sounded equal and signalled no difference in pain through volume or pitch; any theories any of them had formed as to why, remained in their minds, for fear of igniting further concern within the group.

"J'onn?" asked Alfred, whose voice suddenly sounded cracked, weak and sad.

"He's as safe as he can be," replied J'onn, "For now."

"How's his body holding up?" asked the Green Lantern.

"It's hard to tell," explained J'onn simply, "The two most recent injuries are both dangerously deep stab wounds. Other than that, he's definitely got two broken ribs."

"We have to act now." declared Wonder Woman assertively.

"We can't risk making a fool-hardy decision like that," responded the Green Lantern, "We need to think carefully about this. The more we look at the answers the clues are giving us, the more likely it seems that there's more to this than we first thought. Besides, he's more than capable of looking after himself."

"He can't have ever had injuries on the scale he has now!" snapped Diana.

"I understand your concern, Wonder Woman," calmed Superman, "But Green Lantern's right, we need to look at this objectively. Yes, we're here to save him, but there is definitely something more to this than we were lead to believe and I think it has something to do with Gotham. And you know as well as I do that Batman _always _puts Gotham first."

"I personally can't see what's so special about it." stated Hawk Girl, observing the grey, dark, incomprehensible mass that swept below her like an artistic smudge.

"That's not the point," retorted Wonder Woman, "He's in trouble. We have to save him."

"Like Catwoman said," replied the Green Lantern, "Maybe he doesn't want to be saved. Maybe he wants us to do something else, something he thinks is more important, more worthwhile."

"So, he wants us to save a city so corrupt that it's taken him five years to turn it into something unacceptable to the masses?" asked Diana, "Over him, a hero who's risked his life on several occasions for it?"

"That's Bats for you." stated the Flash simply.

"I'll find him myself." snapped Diana.

"No," asserted Superman, "You stay and find those clues. Once we've found all of them, we'll regroup and look at the situation. You know what he would want."

Hawk Girl felt a distinct and forced silence over the radio, as though it were taking every ounce of the Amazonian's soul to stop her mouth from letting loose a flurry of expletives in response to Superman's command. She had clearly thought better of it and refused to speak for the following hour, making everyone's job a lot easier. Particularly Hawk Girl's, whose flight over Gotham was leading her to her penultimate clue, placed precariously at the peak of the tallest building in Gotham. Not that this caused any problems, she was just unnerved at the thought of flying into the ominous storm clouds above.

***

The brutalised Bat leant over and tended to his wounds, failing to notice the threat that had entered the room with potential consequence far scarier than anything the violent villains had to offer. He had torn his cape apart with his teeth and hands, immediately regretting the immense effort he had to place into his arms in order to do so as it had, for reasons he despised, reopened the many healing scabs. These ragged strands of material he then tied around his chest. Whilst they failed quite dismally in their impersonations of bandages, they at least stopped the thick, sticky red liquid from expelling itself with quite so much vigour.

The man who had entered did so surprisingly silently despite his large, bulky build. Even his breath, as laboured and heavy as Batman's own, refused to grab the attention of the protagonist's ears. Each footstep was heavy and oppressive against the floor, which yelled out slightly in discontent against the squeaky shoes that pressed against it. The man then plopped down into the seat with the same sound with which a pebble pops into a body of water. The wooden chair sighed loudly as the nails within its frame struggled against the weight. The antagonist, one of many, then sat and watched the Batman from behind strange spectacles.

Each movement, each slight tension of a muscle tendon was analysed by the thick mass of bulk that sat on a chair whose legs disagreed heavily with the weight placed upon them. It took the Batman a whole two minutes to realise that the heavy breathing was not his own and that his own was in fact hidden within the first. He turned around sharply, immediately regretting the action and found a sudden surge of pain forcing him back against the wall, where a small puddle of red had emerged against the white pads.

"What do you want?" panted Batman, "Strange?"

"You know very well what I want, Batman, so why ask?" replied the analytical mass, "Do you feel the need to be able to control anything? Am I something you don't understand? Or perhaps you fear that I may uncover the mystery as to who it is that lies beyond the mask?"

Every word stretched to its limit to fill the intake of air needed for the next one, creating a very offending and snake-like voice which managed to echo around the small room. The intelligence of Dr Hugo Strange was clear as day and it was clear that he quite liked to show off this huge vocabulary that he had amassed. He also spoke mostly with questions, a language niche of his own whose significance he had already analysed beyond what could be considered the borders of sanity.

"Why did they send you in?" asked Batman, "Of all the guys left, you're the best they've got?"

"Guys?" queried the doctor whose ears had pricked upwards as though the word held some significance beyond being a slang term for a group of people, "How very informal of you Batman, do you, perhaps, think of them as friends? Given the overall time you spend with them, it is a viable assumption to presume so, why choose this word to describe them? Have you spent so long with them that you think you are safe to use such terms around them?"

Batman scowled beneath his mask as his neck struggled to hold up the weight of his head, _No, I'm just tired and not really paying attention to what's coming out of my mouth. Over-analytical moron, _Batman added, _I'm not even thinking normally._

"Why do you choose to put yourself through this hardship?" asked the doctor as he sought to pull away the layers under which Bruce Wayne hid, "You could have let it end so long ago, five minutes ago, but you choose not to, why? Do you find some pleasure from surviving the pain? Or are you so deeply insane that you don't know any different?"

Batman scoffed. He'd always disliked Dr Strange. The first of many reasons was the man's unending mission to analyse his psyche to the point where it could be written as an example in a psychological study. The second was his physical shape, after all, Batman felt, due to the lack of fitness his opponent held, that assaulting the man was somehow wrong. It had never stopped him before but the feeling was always there. It was like hitting a very annoying child, who was trying to destroy you and your entire life.

"Okay," snapped the Joker angrily, "He's boring me now. Have we got any goons left?"

"You mean, apart from the two hundred and fifty busy on the streets of Gotham?" asked the Penguin, whose statistical knowledge was a never-ending benefit in the war of Gotham.

"Well duh," retorted the Clown, "Bird Brain!"

"Yes," spat the Penguin, clearly taking a severe disliking to the use of his Harley-given nickname, "Two."

"Big fellas?"

"Not really, no," replied the Penguin, "One's a rugby player and the other's an out-of-work anorexic actor."

"Rugby player?"

"What the English know as football."

"Oh."

There was a short pause.

"He can beat people up then?"

"I suppose so," responded Penguin, "Yes."

"Then send 'em in!" roared the Joker.

"I can't imagine Dr Strange will approve."

"Tough," snapped the insane lunatic, "I never liked him anyway."

The door was roughly thrown open as a broad bulk of muscle and confused looking man entered the room before the door was promptly closed to with such a force that the frame which held it shuddered and revealed a small crack within the very top left hand corner. Batman looked up sharply and immediately didn't like where his brain suggested the next hour was going. The unnaturally thin unemployed entertainer seemed equally as overjoyed by the situation and promptly started banging on the window for the psychopaths on the other side to let him the 'hell out'.

The English rugby player on the other hand, seemed okay with the idea of beating up the worn-out creature which was responsible for locking him up in jail a record nine times in one year, with an overall total of twenty five. Even the Mayor of Gotham had found that to be quite an impressive feat and he had a somewhat flip-flop relationship with the Dark Knight. As in, when the public liked the Batman, he liked the Batman, when they didn't, he didn't. Hence flip-flop.

"What in God's name is this?" asked Strange who proceeded to slowly rise from his seat and approach the window at a pace a snail would find almost offensive, "Joker? I thought we had a deal."

"Tough luck, Doc," sounded the reply over the speakers, "I didn't get where I am today by being patient!"

"Oh well," he sighed, assuring himself, "At least he didn't send that psychopath in."

Batman frowned distinctly. Partly as, whilst the stab wound beneath his ribs had ceased its bleeding, the other wound which sat just above his heart was slightly more insistent and had begun to seep through the material with which he had attempted to stem it. But he was also forced to recognise that the less-than-pleased goon before him with the large muscles was hardly a good person to be seeing at that time, at least, in comparison to other professionals such a paramedic. However, above all, his primary concern was that Strange had been referring to a psychopath other than the Joker and other than the numerous nutters he had knocked unconscious. Concerns over which of the many psychopaths he could have been referring to bubbled in his mind as the first punch to his solar plexus irrevocably restarted the bleeding process.

***

Landing on the very peak of an iron structure that protruded from the top of the tallest building in Gotham, Hawk Girl had to wonder how the powerless man had managed to get up there. It was a task of much determination for her to be able to fly up there herself and she had two wings, so the mystery as to how a flightless human had managed it burned a curiosity onto her mind that she was pretty dogged to find out the answer to. Frowning, and returning to the task at hand, she examined the surrounding area.

This was a challenge in itself as the thick storm clouds had surrounded the peak with a vigour so intense that it was of great difficulty for Hawk Girl to see the end of her mask. The masses had begun to release a tsunami of bullets upon the sleeping city below and occasional rumbles of thunder shook Gotham as though it were being attacked by a violent and powerful earthquake. Each roll of thunder caused Hawk Girl's frame to shudder and her bones to shiver. The irregular and frightening flashes of electrical magnificence caused her attention to shift for seconds she could not afford to spend on matters other than saving her teammate.

Scanning the area was more difficult than she had wished it to be but eventually her eyes fell upon a small black box hidden on the cusp of the building's upper-most ridge. It balanced there with surprising grace and stability despite its precarious position. She leapt down to it with her wings folded, afraid that the lightning would strike them if they were in any other position. Crouching before it, she allowed her hand to feel the texture of it. Identifying a significant dip in the object's otherwise glass-smooth makeup, she pulled upwards. The box's lid fell open onto its black hinges.

"Found anything?" queried the Flash with a hint of concern in his voice. Being known as the impatient member of the group, the superheroes generally had a habit of ignoring him, but on this occasion, Hawk Girl not only acknowledged, but also replied, to his question.

"I've found a box," she began, a frown falling beneath her mask as she gazed upon the contents, "A black box."

"What's in it?" asked the Green Lantern, curiosity spiking his voice.

"A gun."

The rain droplets fell against the sharp silver shape of the weapon, and coated it with iridescent puddles that glistened brightly whenever the lightning flashed vibrantly across the sky. Her hand brushed against it, meeting its cold metallic indifference with warmth frightened away at the touch. She picked it up as the box was picked up and blown away by a sudden gust of wind. She examined the tiny gun with fascination. It was the first time she had touched the tiny, reliable weapon with which she had been shot at on several occasions.

It was only when she held it in her hand, finally able to see how simple, how primitive and how cold the device was that she suddenly realised how intelligent humans really were. More advanced races relied on technology heavily for their weaponry and used technical marvels and complex chemical reactions in order for their weapons to function whereas the small device in her hand required but the simplest of objects. It was a weapon of the simplest brutality. Akin to a stick in comparison to the mace she held, and yet more dangerous.

"A gun?" asked Superman, "I thought he hated guns."

"Alfred?" asked Wonder Woman, seeking answers from the source of all human knowledge.

"He hates them but they are necessary in order for him to understand the criminals he fights," explained Alfred, "The one I believe you have found is the one he told me went missing two days ago. If you check the gun over, it may have a clue on it."

Turning the gun over in her hand, her fingers traced over tiny, almost insignificant bumps on the gun's otherwise smooth structure. Pulling this area closer to her face, she read an address. The company responsible for its sale was engraved onto the gun's barrel in a manner that fascinated her. She frowned at the gun and left it on the roof, determining that Batman would find it if he wanted it back. She dove off the building and flew towards the shop of the gun's origin.

"It had the address of where he bought it on it," she informed the group, "I'm heading there now."

"If he hates guns so much, why does he keep them?" asked the Flash.

"I have yet to find out," explained Alfred, "I have told him before that it doesn't do him any good. It's certainly not pleasant to see his reaction to them when he finds one."

"Finds one?" asked Superman.

"He does have a tendency to misplace them."

***

"Look, it truly is very difficult to manage any form of psychological analysis when your patient is being beaten up," sighed Dr Strange, frustrated, "Please recall your goon."

"Hmm, let me think about that," spat the Joker who paused for a short five seconds before continuing, "No deal, bud."

The doctor sighed once more and looked to the scene from his comfortable throne. His puffy eyes examined the situation from behind thick spectacles that frequently failed in their attempts to improve his eyesight. This had angered him for many years before he had uncovered that analysis of one's language was equally, if not more, effective as analysing body language. It was a similar concept placed under a different heading with only slightly different cognitive abilities required.

The Batman had not moved himself, though the doctor strongly suspected that he could have, had he the willpower to do so. The goon had been more than happy to move him without his permission, at one point holding him up the wall by his throat. Naturally, the Batman's response was not submissive and the goon was quickly forced to drop the hero and care to the nether regions of his torso; an area Batman was clearly not afraid to target if death by strangulation was not desirable.

However, as the Dr Strange observed, the Batman was not fighting the goon unless something he was doing was particularly dangerous or potentially deadly. As such, it was possible to deduct that he was submitting to the situation, at least in part. He was allowing himself to suffer pain even though he had the capacity and ability to stop it. This was, to the doctor, a curious development though it revealed very little about his current state of mind, only his past.

"What happened to you as a child?" asked Dr Hugo Strange all of a sudden.

There was a response from the mangled black mass on the floor, which blocked a kick to the face in order to stare in surprise and fear at the panting analyst in the distance. This prompted anger from the goon who withdrew his foot from the motion of kicking his face, so that he could slam his entire body weight into the Bat's left leg, which sat exposed whilst his other hid beneath the first.

"Were you beaten?" he queried, "Abused?" he asked, "Abandoned?"

The Batman ignored him, blocking out the questions which provoked deep, burning anger inside him. His brain forced his concentration to the pain the goon's blow had caused and suddenly, his body had given up on his mind and decided that blocking the goon's blows was a far better idea than being beaten up. Moments before the next kick connected with his chin, the Bat grabbed the man's foot and pushed onto it, sending the goon flying into the ground due to his poor lack of balance.

Noticing this change of behaviour prompted a change of questioning, "Or… perhaps, grief? Loss?"

Distracted, a left hook knocked Batman off balance and sent him into the padded wall which he hugged briefly before regaining his senses.

"I see," giggled the doctor, "Grief. Someone died?"

The goon pulled on the Bat's left shoulder and threw him to the ground as though he were a defenceless animal with little more strength than a chair.

"Who died?" requested the doctor, "A friend? A neighbour?"

Blocking a kick to his solar plexus, he rolled over onto his front and leapt to his feet, narrowly avoiding a direct kick on the centre of his spinal chord.

"A relative?"

A headbutt rendered the Batman's senses useless for all of ten seconds as his vision blurred and his brain dozed off.

"A grandparent? A brother? An aunt, an uncle?"

Despite his confusion, he managed to block a kick designed to sweep him off his feet and send him plunging into the padded ground.

"A parent?"

A punch landed directly in the centre of his forehead and sent him flying into the floor. His brain reeled from the blow, his eyes screaming out as they were sent once more into the depths of complete incoherence. The goon clapped slightly, jeering as the Batman rose to his feet, groggy and grumpy as a pregnant woman suffering from morning sickness. Looking to his left, Batman saw a gluttonous vulture watching and smiling with intense satisfaction.

"Mommy?" it asked, "Or Daddy?"

Eyes glazing over slightly, a sense of loss so deep engulfing his mind again, the Batman failed to block the second blow to his head and was sent flying into the glass window which cracked under the weight, leaving a fracture across its entire frame. Struggling to his feet, he identified the distinct, discouraging and unforgettable symptoms of concussion sneaking up upon him. Alfred would not enjoy the recovery period.

"Or both?"

The Batman looked up into two violent green eyes and observed pessimistically, _If there's any recovery time at all._

***

It had taken precisely twenty seconds to find the last clue. It was an obviously placed plastic bat that hung off the guttering of the shop as though it had always belonged there. She pulled it off and balanced it delicately within her hands, observing its non-existent weight before turning it over to underside on which a post-it note message could be seen in all its garish yellowness.

_Gotham City Hall._

That was one of the hospitals that had been discussed earlier on in the evening. Frowning, Hawk Girl refused and failed to find the link between a renowned criminally-run bar, a hospital and the city hall. Not knowing Gotham as well as some other, her brain could not see the immediate link. Batman, had he not been the one to set the clues, would have been pacing the street madly.

"Alfred?" asked Hawk Girl, for some reason using a question, as though making sure he was still there.

"Yes?" sounded the deeply British reply, "Can I help?"

"City Hall."

"Oh good," he sighed cheerfully, "Another one… we haven't got long left."

"We'll find him, Alfred," assured Superman, "We will."

"I know," agreed Alfred, "It's what state you'll find him _in _that I'm worried about."

Hawk Girl frowned, hoping he was faring better than they were in their mission to find him.

***

The Joker sighed miserably, "Well that was suitably disappointing."

"I'm surprised he managed to lift up that rugby player," began the Penguin, "Let alone throw him at our dear unconscious friend, Hugo."

"Yeah, well," began one of the remaining conscious voices, "He should've seen it comin'."

"Of course, of course," agreed the Joker, "Your turn next Pengy, what'cha gonna do?"

"You'll see." came the reply as the short man entered the room with his infamous umbrella.

**A/N: This one may have been a long time coming but it's clocked up a record 3,976 words excluding the Author's Note. **

**Thanks to those who have been reviewing and thanks to the ever growing collection of story alerters and favouriters, though I have noted more people have story alerted than favourited.**

**Anyway, I'll hope to have the next one up sooner but I can't make any guarantees because I'm getting a lot of school work and we're doing language mock exams as well.**


	12. Die Pause

Coalition

Chapter Twelve: Die Pause

'But man, proud man, drest in a little brief authority, most ignorant of what he's most assured' William Shakespeare

"You are really annoying."

Catwoman looked up innocently and tilted her head to the side in a purposefully uncharacteristically human movement. She was sitting on the crest of the building, balancing precariously on its edge as though at any second she would suddenly fall into the deepest and darkest depths of Gotham's underbelly. Though, given her annoying levels of aptitude within the balance department, much to the Green Lantern's frustration, she wouldn't.

"Me?" asked Catwoman, "What did I do?"

The Green Lantern spun on his heels and glared at her. He was not impressed. She knew perfectly well what she'd been doing and he had found it about as amusing as one of the Flash's jokes. He observed that, whilst he had been doing something useful with what little time they had left, she had been doing something that was not only completely unnecessary but also, just bloody weird.

"You were licking yourself."

Staring at him blankly as though it were the most logical and perfectly sensual action in the world, Catwoman mentally questioned his apparent disgust at the action. It was only a joke. Batman would have just ignored her, or rolled his eyes, or have pretended to hide the rolling of his eyes. The Green Lantern seemed to, for some reason she couldn't understand, believe it was something she genuinely did out of habit. This forced a laugh.

"Why're you laughing?" questioned the garish green superhero, refusing to let the appalled frown on his face fall into a loose, relaxed expression.

"I was just doing it to see if you noticed," stated the villain, "I only do it to creep people out. At least I know it's working."

Glaring, the Green Lantern decided to change the subject. He was, as one would expect, unhappy with the fact that he'd fallen for one of Catwoman's tricks. Retrospectively, he observed that Batman had actually mentioned her obsession with freaking people out by making them believe she really was a cat. Surprisingly, or not in Batman's case, some of the less blessed criminals actually believed she was a cat. A cat that could talk, was pretty awesome at acrobatics and that stood on two legs. As for its size, they weren't that stupid: they figured it was a panther.

"Any idea about this clue?" he asked, chucking her the small object.

It was about as delicate and fragile as an angry hippopotamus. The ball was perfectly smooth and it contained no dents or scars, or markings. In fact, it was so unnaturally perfect that the hero had in fact doubted the logic behind describing it as a ball. Its weight and colour gave some suggestion that it was a technological feat, as the silver grey of the material distantly reflected the mournful colours of the moon and its weight required significant effort to hold it. Perhaps it was some sort of device used by Gotham, the Green Lantern theorised.

Looking the ball over with her cat's eyes, the villain-turned-hero-turned-villain examined every centimetre of the device's curious structure. It seemed strangely familiar to her but from where her memory was attempting to dig up the image remained a mystery until she dropped it on the floor. Green Lantern had leapt to catch it, scared it would shatter like glass, but instead the device cracked into two hemispheres. A scrunched up paper note lay within the centre of the hemisphere that had fallen from the left side of the spherical device.

The Green Lantern picked up the note, but only because he got their faster than Catwoman could be bothered to move. He opened it up, examining how the paper's crinkles seemed aged, as though the paper had been there for a fairly lengthy amount of time. His eyes danced over the letters on the paper and formed a word, of which he could derive little sense. His frown signified to Catwoman that his understanding of it was somewhat flawed and so she offered her help.

"It says guc-pud." stated Green Lantern, attempting to pronounce the word his mind had created by ignoring the dots in between the letters.

"What?" questioned Catwoman with more aggression than was intended, "Spell it out."

"G-C-P-D."

Catwoman pondered for a while. Her mind, for all of ten seconds, attempting to understand what strange word it was supposed to be imitating. Suddenly, her memory launched forward familiar images upon which the sequence of letters were clear. She sighed and could have laughed for how obvious it was. It was supremely evident in that moment, just why Batman thought his superpals needed local, expert help: if they couldn't work out something as simple as that, they were seriously in need of help.

"The G.C.P.D. Gotham City Police Department," she explained, "It's an abbreviation, not a word."

"Oh." replied the Green Lantern feeling incredibly stupid.

"I think it's telling us to go to their headquarters."

"No!" shouted GL, realising that it was the final clue, "That's one of the places, that's the final clue! I need to tell them!"

Wrapped up in his own world, he walked off to the other side of the building to radio to Alfred. Catwoman watched him walk off before placing her head in her hands and staring off into the darkness she dared to call home. It was a home fraught with issues and problems but there are always problems. If something's perfect, the very fact that it's so perfect is a problem. It was home, but not much of a home if she was completely honest.

She sighed miserably. Deep down in her conscience, a little burn had been inflicted. She had, though she would defend this fact to the death, feelings for the almighty Black terror of the Gotham Underworld. Admittedly, she wouldn't mind him being roughed up a little bit. After all, he _had _locked her up more than once and he _was _a big boy, but the more she thought about it, the more she began to change her mind.

Yes, he was capable of looking after himself but fourteen armed villains? Armed villains who had all the reasons in the world to hurt him and no fear of being hurt? He was, truly, just a man. Perhaps he wasn't safe. Perhaps he was in real danger. Given the sort of psychopaths the Joker had managed to get on board, there was a very real risk of Batman coming out worse for wear, if not dead.

Distantly:

"Yeah, must be. Again? Gotham City Police Department," spoke GL to hidden listeners, "Anyone else found anything? How close are we to getting them all?"

Biting her lip, she awaited a sign.

"Damn," he replied, "How long have we got left? … This isn't good… We should go the Cave, wait for the others to finish up. We can discuss tactics and strategy while we're there."

Digging her nails into her mask, she shuddered violently. She couldn't stay. She had to get away. She couldn't help. She couldn't see him. Not in the state he'd be in. Not if he was dead. She had to get away. So she did. She ran, disappearing into the abyss of Gotham before the superhero could notice she was gone. She would carry on running because she was scared of what would happen if she stopped. She didn't want to know how bad the Batman's condition was, she didn't want that guilt burning itself on her heart again. She needed air and freedom and so she ran.

"GL?" asked the radio, "GL? You okay?"

"Yeah, but kitty's gone."

***

Penguins were never the most graceful creatures on the planet. They move in a comical fashion as their legs lack the necessary joints to enable them to glide from step to step with the dogged poise humans manage. Whilst the particular villain entering the room owned in abundance these miraculous joints, his body was simply unable to imitate the fluid movements patented by his species. His black tailored suit, coupled with this disability of movement, had earned him the title of his favoured animal.

Behind a sharply pointed nose sat two striking eyes of blue which glared into the similar blue orbs with an emotion, unidentifiable. Standing before the hero who had imprisoned him, attacked him and cruelly treated him, the Penguin felt a sick, twisted sense of power and superiority. Though, at the same time, a deep instinct forced pity into the boiling pit of emotions in his stomach. It was difficult to believe that the terrifying creature of the night was lying, battered beyond belief, before him on the floor.

"Can you speak?" asked the Penguin, feeling it necessary to crouch down towards the Bat slowly as he posed the question. In case the response was violent, the infamous umbrella hid itself behind his thick frame.

"Why do you care?" snapped the Bat, defiance burning powerfully and distinctly within the innocently blue irises that sat behind the black mask.

"I want to talk," replied the Penguin calmly, "Among other things."

Curious, the Bat shifted slightly. Though immediately regretting it, the gesture was noted by the villain who decided, for better or worse, to place himself on the floor opposite. It was when on the floor, sitting just two feet away from the hero, that the true horrific extent of his injuries became clear. Stomaching his food, the Penguin observed the pool of blood, the battered body, the grimace of pain. Though disgusted by his treatment, the Penguin remained objective.

"You've lost a lot of blood," stated the Penguin, "Enough to warrant you being unconscious, if not worse."

"I hadn't noticed." retorted the Batman sarcastically.

"You have numerous cuts and contusions, a major case of whiplash unless it's developed into something worse such as concussion or compression," listed the Penguin, scanning the hero's body with sharp, analytical eyes, "Probably a couple of dislocated joints, it wouldn't be surprising to find out you've slipped a disk and by the shape of the armour of the left side of your chest, you've at least broken two ribs."

"Why are you telling me this?" queried the bloodied, black hero, "This isn't exactly what I thought you meant when you said you wanted to talk."

"Fine," concluded the villain, "We'll talk."

"Why?" asked the Bat, as though entertaining the idea of speaking frankly with one of his adversaries.

"Because I'm not like them," he replied, "I'm here for retribution alone. All of the injuries you inflicted on me over the years, I will replicate exactly for you. Then I'll leave and the others can do with you what they will."

"Why did you need to tell me that?" queried the Bat, as though he had already worked out the Penguin's motive, as though he already understood the situation.

"I'm not sure," was the reply, "I suppose that deep down there's a piece of humanity left within me that can sympathise with you, and it's that little niggling feeling that's telling me I ought to tell you. So, now that I have, I'm going to tell you what you've done to me."

A long and painful list followed. One broken rib. Fifty times a broken nose. Two hundred black eyes. Fifty grazes along the left leg, twenty along the right. Two broken wrists. Chemical burn on the left arm. Minor cut down the right arm. Whiplash on fifteen separate occasions. Twenty five muscles injuries. One hundred and ninety four bruises along the back. Eighty three bruises along limbs. Twenty nine bruises to the torso. Finally, three dislocated shoulders.

To the villain's surprise, a tiny sliver of regret seemed to lighten the blue orbs of Batman's eyes during the essay. A small nod of the head signalled guilt and a slight sigh gave away the emotion of frustration. Despite this, the Penguin stood up, umbrella in hand. The Bat knew very well what would happen next and had to hand it to the Penguin for his honesty and simplicity. The Penguin's violence had reason, justification. In that knowledge, the Bat could at least know that the blows inflicted would not kill him.

"For your sake, I hope these injuries make you comatose before _he _gets _his_ turn."

***

It had never occurred to him how large and lonely the Cave actually was. The Cave system spanned underground for a size nearly triple that of the already oversized manor. Bats above, making up the living roof, never ceased their chattering, their delicate whispering or their silent gossiping. Distantly, the waterfall obscuring the Cave's main entrance cascaded with the force of a tank against the rocks beneath it, causing deafening noise to roll throughout the cave like the never-ending rumble of thunder during a storm which never seems to end. Yet, beneath all of this, the silent, delicate hum of a generator kept the electricity flooding through the dank Cave.

The waterfall, naturally, caused a miniature lake to form within the entrance of the cave and it was in this glistening, rippling basin that the beastly car should have sat in its perfectly black condition. It wasn't there, that they knew from Batman's police friends, as oxymoronic as that statement seemed. Commissioner Gordon had informed them that it had been discovered as a burning, virtually unidentifiable wreck, caused by a triggered explosion. They had all assumed that it was Batman who had destroyed the vehicle, for fear of it being used to trace his allies.

The entirety of the cave was coated with the powerful, defiant water that made walking over the ensemble of rocks a virtual death trap. The technology, for all of the threats it faced, was in perfect, brand-spanking-new condition. An apparently plastic sheet leant over anything that buzzed of electricity, as though it were shielding freezing citizens awaiting the buses that were always, inevitably, late. The reasons for these protective measures were two-fold: firstly, there was the constant dripping which did little good for the electricity flowing throughout the equipment; secondly, bats eat and where there is food, there is poop.

Strangely, the Green Lantern, who was hovering over the soaked death-trap rocks encased in a shimmering green light, had failed to notice any significant smell. Though one could be expected to smell the unpleasant scent of bat excrement, there seemed to be some silent extractor fan working on a constant basis to rid the place of the smell. Either that or he'd just gotten used to it. He released his second green skin when he neared the computer terminal, over which Alfred was slaving.

"Alfred?" asked the Green Lantern.

"Uh!" exclaimed the butler, who, unaware of the superhero's arrival, leapt upwards slightly in his seat and spilt the already-turned-cold cup of tea on the floor, "You gave me quite the scare, Green Lantern, Sir."

"Sorry Alfred," replied GL, "I should've guessed that you wouldn't have been able to hear me over all the noise."

Following the superhero's finger, which was pointing upwards towards the ever-chattering bats, Alfred smiled slightly and nodded. He excused himself and went to fetch kitchen paper for the mess of tea that lay on the floor. Upon his return, the kitchen paper was rudely forced out of his hand as the green-clad superhero declared that he would tidy the mess up. Despite Alfred's requests, the hero tied up the mess and forced the butler to sit back down in the chair, refusing to let him make a cup of tea for the guests that would be arriving.

"That really wasn't necessary." stated Alfred, almost hurt.

"No, I made you spill it, I clear it up," assured GL, "It's only fair."

A brief silence fell upon them before conversation raised its ugly head once again.

"Will you find him in time?" asked Alfred, whose eyes stared downwards, unable to make the simplest of human contact, "We have less than two hours left."

"We will," replied the hero, "He's a survivor, always has been. And I've only known him for a couple of years at the most. I'm sure he can survive long enough."

"I hope so, Sir."

At that moment, a fatherly concern leapt upon the butler's face. John Stewart watched curiously, the story of Bruce Wayne was a well known one, but little attention was given to him after the event that changed his life. Evidently, it was Alfred who cared for the child and the impact was clear. John had been a hero long enough to recognise the unconditional love of a parent, and it was etched as clear as mud on the man's face.

"GL!!!"

John glared at the terminal. He should have known. He should have guessed that just when he was beginning to take the first few steps to learning more about the Batman, the red devil would arrive, shooting into the Cave shouting his name. Invisible spikes of pure hatred leapt off of the Green Lantern as the Flash entered his peripheral vision with a notable red face. Upon seeing this, the spikes vanished and a raised, confused eyebrow altered the superhero's expression.

Pointing, GL questioned, "What happened?"

The Flash was oddly, uncharacteristically silent.

"Don't tell me it was the coffee machine," ordered Hawk Girl as she landed beside GL, "_Again_."

"Actually," snapped Flash, "It was the vending machine."

"Congratulations," clapped Superman, entering garishly in his clashing coloured suit, "Now there are two machines that utterly hate you."

"It's not _my _fault the thing fired a can at my face."

"Yeah, then how come you're the one that's-"

"EXCUSE ME!" shouted Alfred, whose voice immediately demanded the attention of the entire group, "We really should focus on finding Master Bruce. We haven't long left."

Turning away to face the computer terminal, slightly red-eyed, Alfred turned his back to the superheroes. The heroes immediately exchanged concerned glances. They dared not express their thoughts out loud, but all were aware that they shared the same ideas. Alfred was clearly not coping well, and the stress, the worry was as clear as day. As for Batman, he was probably not doing much better.

***

SNAP!

"ARGH!"

"That was when you tried to disarm me by punching my upper arm but missed."

It wasn't a natural fracture, it was far, far too clean. Sliced in two as though it were simply a sponge cake, the surgical precision snapped the rib apart. It was one of the ribs that sat directly above his lungs and far below his breast plates. Instinctively the pain screamed in his mind with the persistence of an alarm clock on a Monday morning, but beneath the pain, a second, intensely more worrying feeling snuck up upon his nervous system. An indescribable feeling of dampness, as though he were bleeding internally.

_SHIT! _he swore mentally. Internal bleeding? The possibility was bad enough but if the rib had broken into one of his lungs, it could potentially be a death sentence. He'd had internal bleeding before, unsurprisingly, and he'd been waltzing around rooftops for three hours before he'd noticed that something was wrong and let himself get checked out by Alfred and that was a lung puncture. He'd had the symptoms before, he knew something was wrong. The first aid manual Alfred kept handy wasn't wrong about the acute sense of alarm.

The umbrella collided with his shoulder and it did so with such force that an unpleasant popping noise engulfed his ear as his arm fell, quite literally, out of its socket. Though unable to produce a cry as loud as the broken rib had produced, it was certainly loud enough to warrant the Penguin grimacing. Immediately, Batman's left arm leapt into action and shoved the movementless right arm straight back into its socket. This resulted in an emotionally intensive grunt and sigh. Looking up, anger and pain contorted the blue sea of the Batman's irises.

"You've saved me a bit of trouble there," stated the Penguin, apparently unmoved by the intense glare, "I had three dislocated shoulders. Two left to go."

The action was repeated twice and on the final one, a deafening cry was impossible to hold back and the injured hero was horrified to find frothy warm iron in his mouth. He coughed slightly and spat it out, appalled to see that it was a vibrant, bright, blood-red. Rushing his hands to his mouth despite the intensive pain, he coughed another three times as small puddles of blood sprayed onto his torn-up gloves. His eyes widened with each cough as the extent of the rib injury dawned on him.

_Pneumothorax, _stated Batman coldly, _I've got a collapsed lung. Shit, this is bad._

The Penguin backed off slightly, as though his resolve was damaged by the sudden complication. Frowning, with several different emotions, he approached again and proceeded to deliver the blows that would inevitably result in contusions. Then, he told himself, he could leave. He would have had his retribution, he'd leave and that would be the end of his involvement in the coalition. He didn't want to know what the two remaining psychopaths would do.

Fumbling around his collar bone, the bloody gloved hands tore open a tiny rip in the fabric and groped the neck in search for a pulse. It found a pulse and pressed hard in order to identify it through the bare fingers that were free of the black glove. It was weak, and far faster than it would normally have been. Rapid, weak pulse. Another symptom. Frowning with more frustration than he could safely justify, he recognised a sudden dryness in his throat. His body suddenly started to yearn for delicate liquid to wash away the harsh iron taste that sat in his throat at the time. Thirst.

Then a blow collided with his arm, yelling out, all of the worries in his mind vanished to find themselves replaced with simplistic, pure, pain. The Penguin, for all of his desire for vengeance, noticed that his victim continued to cough up blood and was turning to a pale complexion, coated with visible sweat. It was not too much later that, in between blows, the great Batman began to shiver and huddle himself into a ball as though yearning for warmth that his body temperature couldn't provide.

***

"I have some information." stated J'onn through the radio feed that echoed throughout the Cave via the speakers.

The superheroes had taken off their individual headsets for the time being, as they would only receive interference from the control radio which relayed messages to and from the Cave. Though able to hear from anywhere in the cave, the group had crowded around the chair on which Alfred sat, leaning over the microphone. Each of them noticed the stress on the elder man's face.

"Go ahead." stated GL, his voice leaping down the microphone before anyone else's had the opportunity.

"You won't like it," stated the Martian Manhunter, "Not one bit."

"Tell us." commanded Superman.

"I managed to pick up some of his thoughts, just a moment ago."

"And?" asked the Flash.

"According to what he's thinking, he has a collapsed lung."

There was a long silence. Without a word, Alfred got up and walked out of the Cave. No one dared to follow him. No one dared to speak to him. Upon reaching the manor, door closed safely behind him, Alfred screamed the expletive and sank to the floor. Head in hands, his red eyes could not bear to fall upon the family photo. He could not bear to admit that he had failed them. That he had let _him _get hurt. It was his fault.

"We need to find him." stated Superman assertively.

"If we're lucky," explained GL, "It'll be something that doesn't need emergency treatment."

"And if we're not?" asked Diana, voice broken.

"Just focus on getting those locations," asserted Hawk Girl, wary of Emotion's ability to destroy concentration and focus, "For his sake."

***

"I'm not as bad as you think," stated the Penguin, delicately holding up the Bat's head by his chin. It was cold as ice and clammy, wet trickles of blood, so vibrant and bright that they were garish, dribbled over the dried paths previous streams had taken, just avoiding his hand. Against the changing colour of the skin, the red was almost alien. The Bat's skin had turned to a distinctive blue-grey, "In fact, I hope you don't live through this ordeal because the man who stands in my shadow is far worse."

Flickering, the Bat's eyes eventually slammed shut, and his entire body fell to the floor in an unhealthy heap. Sighing, the Penguin waddled out of the room, out of the building, out of the coalition. He had not meant to do as much harm as he accidentally had. He smiled at the irony of that: the one criminal who had not intended to kill him had accidentally become the closest one to succeeding. Leaving, he was followed by the vocal criticisms of the Joker, whom he ignored. His concern was focused, unconsciously, at the darkness the Batman would face. The darkness who, similarly, wore a black mask.

**A/N: Again, over 4,000 words. For those of you wondering why Batman isn't dead (having received a lung puncture resulting in **_**pneumothorax **_**(a collapsed lung)) it is because it is something called 'simple****pneumothorax' which is, obviously, still dangerous, but doesn't require urgent emergency treatment.**

**Also, as far as I'm aware the symptoms I've given are right. That's what my first aid manual tells me.**

**Thanks to people who are reading, reviewing, favouriting and storyalterting. I've noticed more people storyaltering and favouriting, which is always reassuring.**


	13. La Douleur Reprend

Coalition

Chapter Thirteen: La douleur reprends

'They learn in suffering what they teach in song' Percy Shelley

They were running out of time rapidly and the revelation by J'onn that Batman had sustained a life-threatening injury had done little to encourage thoughts of success within the group. Alfred, in particular, had seemed to be the least capable of withholding his concern. Understandably so. Next in line to that title was the wingless, flying Amazonian who soared through Gotham's skyline in search of the location of her penultimate clue.

Distantly, the tiny, seemingly unimportant, birds began to twitter, signalling to the underbelly of the Dark City that the sun was not far from bathing the city once again in its glorious light. Despite the news of the oncoming sunlight, thick dew coated the parks within which the small creatures of song hid. Though the air was cold and harsh against the skin, the dew had not been submitted to temperatures low enough to contort it into the even harsher, uncaring frost it had seen many months earlier.

Suddenly, the baby blue eyes were dragged downwards to the darkling fountain whose flurry of frothy water was unseen as the light that could peer through the trees surrounding it, failed to produce sufficient light to make the water visible. However, as the princess's delicate boot padded the cobbled path surrounding the man-made spectacle, a glistening sliver of familiar green could be seen bubbling below the water's rippling, disturbed surface.

"How close, Wonder Woman?" asked Superman.

"Very," she explained, placing her hand in the freezing water, "I've found the penultimate clue."

Though the water's cold and distinct lack of warmth hurt her arm with its apathetic attitude, it was strangely refreshing. It was brisk and crisp and reminded her of awaking to a winter's morning. Ignoring the swift, swirling currents that brushed lovingly, calmly and mysteriously against her skin, she grasped the unfamiliar object and removed it from its humble abode. Her hand, emerging from the water, released desperate droplets that leapt nimbly to the surface from which they had been stolen, and created tidal waves that distorted the water's surface further.

Frowning, she examined the object in closer detail. It was jagged, sharp and unfriendly in shape, and it seemed to regard her with eyes one would expect of a savage beast. It felt, for all of its lack of size, as though it could kill. From it, a distinctly unearthly green glowed and pulsated. Rolling it over in her hands, she could feel radiation pouring out from it with the vigour and strength of a tsunami. Confused for a while, she continued to roll the small crystal around in her hand until tiny, thin words became visible.

Etched into the crystal's very undelicate and harsh frame was a sentence which was clearly handwritten as Diana was immediately able to identify at as the notoriously scruffy and incomprehensible writing of Batman. Bruce Wayne, as Batman had been quick to point out in his defence, had very pretty, dignified handwriting, except when taking notes, or writing to close friends, or any other collection of convenient exceptions. Smiling, and running a finger over it as though doing so would take her closer to him, she read the sentence aloud, albeit it quietly.

"This is a sample of Green Kryptonite so, presumably, you're not Superman. The final clue is in the only building in Gotham that stocks lead and facilitates the equipment to melt and shape it. Within that building, there will be the final clue and a container for said crystal."

Diana widened her view to the entire crystal and found herself surprised that she had not noticed that it was in fact the very material that could kill the Man of Steel. Though, she was forced to admit, her mind had been straying around during her investigation. The second feed from Batman had done very little to improve her confidence and concentration. The news from J'onn about Batman's suspected, if not genuine, collapsed lung, did very little in the way of reassuring her.

"You weren't kidding about the two of you not getting along were you?" asked the Green Lantern, his question evidently being directed at Superman.

"No," replied Superman coldly, "No I wasn't, though, I did give him permission to hold that. In case I ever became brain-washed, under enemy control or just plain power-crazy."

"Were you hoping he wouldn't take you seriously or something?" asked Hawk Girl, "You sound so surprised."

"And wounded." added Flash.

"I was kind of hoping he'd not have listened to me," explained Superman, "Or that he'd have enough faith and trust in me to not have it."

"Wishful thinking, Supes," stated Flash, "Bats doesn't trust anyone."

At that moment, Alfred chose to cough audibly.

"Oh, well," corrected Flash, "Except Alfred."

Sighing, Wonder Woman grasped the device. She needed to find the building. She needed to find the final clue. If she couldn't, perhaps something worse would happen. Perhaps the next piece of news from J'onn wouldn't be so good. Perhaps something beyond words would happen to Bruce. She frowned, brushing aside her concerns, her worries, and her emotions. Until she could find him. Because she _would _find him. Even if it took the whole world.

***

_Unconscious again?_ was allhe asked himself before realism hit his mind with the full force of a tonne of bricks.

The full extent of his injuries became astoundingly clear. His body was coated in a thick, cold sweat and he could feel warm, boiling blood creeping over his skin like a slowly advancing disease. He felt short of breath, a rare and terrifying state that he was unaccustomed to, and he could identify that his small, petrified little heart was pumping far faster than it normally would with a weakening vigour that was disturbing and worrying, to say the least. Among the most serious of his injuries was the collapsed lung, but this condition was closely followed by the two stab wounds who had only recently ceased their persistent weeping of bloody tears.

He awoke, firstly to a depressing physical condition, secondly to dull pain that throbbed throughout his body as though he had only recently had the work-out of a life time and thirdly to heinous, vindictive laughter. The laugh brimmed so full of sick, twisted ideas, so full of hideously vile enjoyment, overflowing with disgusting, dehumanising ideals, that it physically made the Bat shudder. He recognised, despite his greatest wish at that time to be unable to, the laughter as belonging to the Black Mask whose speciality was disturbing beyond words.

"Y-.." his words were abruptly ended as coughing, spluttering and thick mouthfuls of blood prevented his tongue forming the words. Pain shot through his lungs as he coughed, as the organs signalled their great discontent and concern at their condition. Batman bit his lip and glared at the villain, placing all of his agonising pain and feeling of powerlessness into that single, intense glare.

Black Mask practically bent over backwards as his diaphragm let loose a cacophony of hysterical laughter whose ferocity and sheer loudness rivalled that of the Joker's. Despite his mask of burnt black signalling no outward emotion, it was as clear as day that beneath the mask was a face of such sheer pleasure, anxiousness and excitement that it perhaps would have even been capable of making the Batman suppress a smirk. The laughter echoed loud around the room, reverberating as though in a cave, and eventually ceased.

"So," slurred the harsh, whispy voice whose sound could only be compared to smoke as it seemed to be very fluid, yet it resembled the sound of sand paper, "The almighty Batman, scourge of the underworld, reduced to a bloody, broken mess."

"I-.." was the returned reply, coated with flecks of bright, frothy blood that landed comfortably and proudly on the white collar of the Black Mask's shirt. Batman could have smirked at that, were it not for the intense pain that had, in all but medical certainty, crippled him. Still, Batman told himself, the Black Mask's look of frustration was certainly satisfying even if it were for the few short seconds before the magnificently terrifying pieces of equipment beside him were being utilised.

"I've been waiting a long, long time for this," celebrated the smoky voice, holding in its hand an implement resembling a long silver spike whose purpose could be nothing less than something disturbing and painful, "You're so hard to get hold of. You never fall unconscious. You always have police back up, well recently anyway, wonder how long that will last? Now, are you ready? No? Good."

Batman's response was an intense glare, his last and only line of defence against the psychopath who had tied him down to the table with incredibly strong materials. There was simply no way he could escape or free himself in the condition he was in. Whatever energy he did have, he needed to conserve for the Joker because whatever the Joker had in store would be far more physically demanding than anything the Black Mask could offer.

_Besides, _Batman reminded himself sceptically, _I've been tortured before._

"I wonder how deep these wounds are?" asked Black Mask vindictively, "Shall we see if we can't make them a little deeper?"

Batman's face fell into one of brief disgust before being completely washed away in a sea of visible and uncontrollable pain. The long silver spike had been cruelly plunged into the first of the two stab wounds. With the speed of a diver shooting through the water, the implement reopened the injury. Upon removal, the implement was coated with thick, warm, almost steaming blood. Following the device's exit, a delicate fountain of trickling thick red bubbled upwards and spilled over, staining the black suit once more.

It was, for want of all will, a silent scream. His lungs simply didn't have the capacity to unleash that particular emotion. Then again, he'd been through so much pain that same evening that there was very little difference between the varying types. He'd observed that the pain only ever seemed to be worse because he'd forget what it was like moments earlier. Thus, though unable to think, he felt as though the pain was similar. However, this didn't stop the pain at that moment and neither would it stop the torrent of pain to follow later that hour.

He tried to pant, to swallow whatever air was available but only one lung was functioning. Breathing was a difficult, conscious and painful task. In the moments when he most needed oxygen, he found his body unable to inhale it. It felt as though he was drowning, a sensation he had felt before. No matter how many times one undergoes the feeling, there is that primal panic lunging into your brain, erasing all sensible thought. Fear and panic surged through his body as he struggled to take in oxygen.

"What's this then?" asked Black Mask, leaning forwards and placing his ear a few centimetres from the panting, bloody mouth, "Ooh. Now _this _is interesting. A collapsed lung, Batman? That can't be good, now can it?"

To his enormous frustration, all he could do was glare into the uncaring orbs. Thankfully, Black Mask quickly got bored with reopening old wounds as he only reopened the second stab wound before realising he had something altogether more interesting up his sleeve. Batman felt great concern bubble up within his chest as the Black Mask laughed slightly before revealing a modified AED*. Batman, though panicked and short of breath, had enough sense in his brain to know that a modified AED was definitely _not _a good thing.

***

"Wonder Woman?" asked J'onn.

Pausing over the specified building, Diana's face fell into a distinctly curious and confused frown. J'onn had opened up a private line that only the two of them would be able to communicate on. Whilst the line wouldn't last long, it offered privacy. It was the reason for this privacy that bemused the female superhero. Why would J'onn need to speak to her privately? What could be so important or clandestine that the rest of the League couldn't know?

"J'onn?" asked Wonder Woman, "What do you want?"

"I need to warn you."

Her blood suddenly ran cold. Her body seemed to freeze into a solid object, midair. Hovering to the roof of the building below, her feet seemed to create frost where they touched. Her skin took on a pale complexion and delicate beads of ice-warm water formed around her forehead. Sitting herself down and holding her head with her two, equally cold and clammy hands, she tried to mentally prepare herself for whatever terrible news J'onn was about to deliver. She knew not why she knew the news was bad, but she dreaded it all the same.

"Warn me about what?"

A sigh fluttered over the radio as though it were a delicate butterfly burdened by a two tonne weight that sat, looming over its shoulders as though it were Death itself. A pause then followed. Whilst J'onn had not been among humans long, certain emotions and feelings were genuinely universal. The delivery of bad news was certainly a universally recognised pain because there is not a place in the omniverse, as J'onn had learned it, that was without bad news.

"You need to be prepared, everyone does," he began, choosing his words with the utmost sympathy and care, analysing them in advance so that the words could not be misinterpreted, misread, "I'm radioing everyone individually."

"We need to be prepared?" asked Wonder Woman before her voice turned glacial cold and snapped, "For what?"

An intake of breath that lasted as long as time itself followed. The pause between the breath and the first word seemed to span infinity and in the intense darkness that coated Gotham before the sun could shine upon it, the wait was like a stab in the back. Never before had words seemed to take so long to sound, to be heard and to be understood as in the few milliseconds between the breath and the word. Anxious, carnivorous creatures tore at Diana's insides like savage, mindless beasts.

"He is in a very bad way," stated J'onn, "You need to prepare yourself for the worst. Even if he does-"

"NO!" shouted Diana ferociously, "No. He won't. He can't."

"Even if he does," continued J'onn firmly, "He will be, for want of a better description, 'pretty messed up'. You need to keep yourself together no matter what we see when we find him. Okay? It is what he will have wanted."

Before his words could be analysed, before they could sink in, before her brain could calculate a response, he left the conversation and released the private link. Her brain, even in its angry and slightly confused state, could tell that his choice of tense 'will have wanted' was very carefully chosen. Frowning and forcing her head clear at that moment, she turned her attention to solving her clues. She refused to allow herself to think of her lost teammate, as doing so would inevitably distract her. She had to find that clue.

Lacking the patience to find a door, Diana's fist collided with the roof which promptly collapsed beneath her. Though the massive clumps of cement fell astoundingly close to the complicated machinery, it somehow managed to avoid damaging any of it. A feat which the superheroine had little time to appreciate. Landing harder than she had intended, she picked herself up and brushed the dirt and dust from herself.

The light that would have been able to illuminate the room had irrevocably been shattered beneath the rubble as the ceiling to which it had been attached, had collapsed. Relying entirely on the light produced by the green kryptonite and her virtually perfect eye vision, she scanned the room. The room looked as though it were used frequently and so she deduced that the items in question would have been very well hidden.

Her search led her to an office whose door she had to kick in as it was locked. Inside there were many filing cabinets. She frowned distinctly and smiled a little when she noticed a calendar with a picture of herself on them. Some reporter must be paid hundreds of thousands to take pictures for said calendar. The filing cabinet below had collected dust so it was clear it was one of the less often used one. She had to break the locks on each draw as she moved down the cabinet. The bottom cabinet was the one that attracted her complete attention.

Inside was a large lead container. Smiling slightly, she slipped the kryptonite into it and placed the lid on securely. Though now relying totally on her eyesight in the intense blackness, she found that she could see surprisingly well. Inside was an envelope with, in the scruffiest, most familiar handwriting she'd ever seen, her name written on it. Opening it, she found two tickets. Tickets to see a band play at Gotham's Indoor Concert Centre.

"The Indoor Concert Centre!" exclaimed Wonder Woman ecstatically, "That's the location!"

Immediately leaping onto the radio, she relayed the information to Alfred back at the Cave. Everyone's voice seemed to tinge with a slight optimism. Smiling, she took the tickets in her hand and examined them in greater detail. It was for a gig in a month's time. They were good seats as well and expensive. She took them as a sign from Bruce. A sign that he would be okay. That whatever he was going through, he was capable of fighting through. Grinning like a child in a candy store, she left the building and headed to the Cave.

***

Short of breath. Blood in mouth. Intense chest pain. Blurring, fading vision. A slight smile formed. It wasn't looking good. Not one bit. That and the smell of burning flesh. He tried to breathe. Every time he did, it seemed to fail. There wasn't enough oxygen. He'd be lucky if he didn't die of oxygen starvation. There was a brief laugh before the surge flooded through his body. His hair stood on end and he froze, despite moving, as electricity tore his body apart.

He tried to pant, to breathe but there wasn't enough. And it hurt. It hurt so much. His vision had virtually completely gone. Or was it because he was frowning and closing his eyes? It hurt. Cringing, convulsing and flinching, he bit down on his lower lip. A small torrent of blood flew from the wound. The resulting scar would live with him forever. It hurt. Everything hurt. If he so much as moved a muscle, pain shot through his entire body.

_On the bright side, _he observed darkly, _At least I can't be accused of not knowing what pain is._

"Another shock?" asked the Black Mask, whose voice laughed with its smoky, harsh sound, "You're not doing so well."

The buzz of the electricity. It buzzes loud. Before it shocks. Buzzes like a bee hovering beside your ear. Then the shock is delivered with mathematical precision. Designed to stop the heart, the shock is powerful. Not designed for any other purpose, the pain it caused was not within its blueprint. It shoots through the body. It seizes control. It makes your body convulse and move with no effort on your part. It freezes you. Stops you from doing anything. Then, when the shock is delivered, the pain remains. Residual traces seem to spark around, seeking to cause pain in case you missed it the first time.

_It hurts, _he mentally whimpered, praying no one could hear the weakness, _It hurts._

His condition was not good. He knew it. That much he could be sure of. He could survive another two hours at the most before emergency aid would be all that stood between him and Death. It was something he had not experienced before. He had been beaten up before but never to this level. Never to a point where Death was a stone's throw away. Was it worth it? Saving the city, in exchange for being a toy to a group of lunatics? What would his death even accomplish? It wouldn't stop them. They wouldn't be happy. They'd just find a new plaything.

"_Bruce?"_

_J'onn? _he smiled slightly, _You heard didn't you? Don't tell anyone. I could very well be dying but tell anyone and I will come back from the grave to haunt you._

"_You're not going to die."_

_I hope not, _he sighed sadly, _I'd rather not be killed by the psychos. It would just be too good for them. They'd never shut up about it. And it would ruin my reputation._

"_You have a good sense of humour," _stated J'onn, _"Considering your state."_

_I suppose._

"_Can you hold out?"_

_Barely, _he replied, _Two hours at the most._

"_The clues," _began the Manhunter, _"They don't lead to you do they?"_

_No._

"_Why?"_

_You know why, _replied Batman simply, _You'll find me when you need to._

"_Will we get there in time?"_

_I don't know, _stated Batman, _Might be an idea to bring a first aid kit though._

"_I'll see you later then."_

_Hopefully._

"Why're you smiling?" hissed the whispy voice of the Black Mask, "Can't have that now, can we?"

Despite the injuries, despite the pain, despite a collapsed lung, a single, soothing deep breath filled the one good lung he had as he prepared himself for his counterattack. He would not be bullied. Not by some idiot with an AED, not by the dirt of Gotham's underbelly. His hand grasped, with as much energy as the twitching thing could manage, the metal railing that coated the bed. His hand did so with a sense of victory that was weighed down only by the pain he knew was coming.

The machine lit up and administered what would be a fatal electric shock in normal cases, in cases where the machine had not been decimated for untoward purposes. The shock flew through hid body, causing pain everywhere it touched, until it found something more interesting. It shot towards the metal and then, due to his closeness, into Black Mask who fell to the floor in a heap after the electric shock caught him off guard. The villain was quickly, much to Batman's relief, dragged out of the room. Though, the preceding sigh only caused pain and removed the sense of relief. Particularly as the door had opened to reveal the devil in a purple suit.

**A/N: Sorry for the late update and shorter chapter. I've been doing a French Exchange this week so my life has been turned upside down. **

**Thanks to everyone who is continuing to read and review. Hope this chapter pleases!**

*** AED is the acronym of Automatic External Defibrillator. It is a small electronic device that is designed for use during CPR. It administers an electric shock that stops the heart when the heart has gone into ventricular fibrillation (basically, when it stops working properly). **


	14. Der Teufel Part I

Coalition

Chapter Fourteen: Der Teufel

'Diverse, sheer opposite, antipodes. The one pours out a balm upon the world, the other vexes it.' John Keats

Part One

"Do you recognise this building?" queried J'onn, holding up the photograph he had recovered. It had been a long time since Superman had left and the Riddler was intent on uncovering every tiny piece of information on his enemy as possible. It did not help that every place they went was a significant landmark in the Batman's history. Some of which were landmarks that could prove devastating if the Riddler was intelligent enough to recognise them.

The Riddler looked up briefly. His eyes were glazed with boredom so profound it was virtually tangible. Glistening briefly with the self-satisfaction of recognition, his irises quickly rolled, as though the image was one so easily recognisable that anyone with a brain in between their heads should be able to recognise it. Tilting his head so that his chin once again lay in contact with his chest, he stared at his feet, bored. When the villain felt the Martian's curiosity and impatience rise, he delivered the answer.

"That's Blackgate," stated the Riddler simply, "It's a prison."

"High security?" asked J'onn, completely out of his own curiosity.

"Of course," retorted the Riddler as though it was the dumbest question the world had ever had the terrible misfortune to be exposed to, "All of the prisons in Gotham are high security."

"Interesting," stated J'onn, before explaining that he'd found the final clue and that the Riddler's incredibly useful aid, if somewhat unsparkling conversation, was no longer needed, "You can go if you want. We promised we wouldn't take you into custody, and I won't. Though, I can't guarantee that Batman won't track you down when he's safe."

"He plan on moving city then?" asked the Riddler, a distinctly smug yet somewhat tired smile sitting on his face, "He'll never be safe so long as he lives in Gotham."

J'onn paused. He looked down, examining the photo in greater detail. As he looked up, he saw the slim green figure gracefully saunter away into the darkness which the rising sun sought to obliterate. Frowning, the superhero took his time to contact the rest of the League. It was what the Riddler had said, how he had said it and the expression on his face. Perhaps the villain's were growing tired of the cat and mouse game? Perhaps they were as sick of it as Batman?

Sighing and shrugging, J'onn dismissed the idea. The very thought that the Joker was anything beyond a complete psychopath who enjoyed the chase and inflicting pain on any innocent bystanders who just so happened to be nearby, was a ridiculous concept. Bringing his attention to the matter at hand, J'onn raised his hand to cup the radio, though this made no difference to the way in which it functioned. There was some sort of link between the wide variety of locations they had uncovered, but what precisely that link was, would remain a mystery until he gave his discovered location to Alfred.

"I'm on my way back now," stated J'onn simply, his voice laced with a slightly optimistic relief that he couldn't even recognise, "I've found the final location."

Collective signals of joy, happiness and optimism rippled through the radio loudly and boisterously. They were one step closer to recovering him and suddenly, any concerns over his physical and mental condition were suppressed by powerful emotions of relief. So, wishing to not keep them waiting any longer, J'onn soared through the sky, dropping the photograph on the floor as he did.

With sunlight peering over the city's border, the terrifying city of Gotham suddenly seemed less threatening. It seemed more humane, as though it was possible to raise a family there without being victim to a psychopath. Despite this, the researchers' statistics remained at the forefront of the Martian's mind. During one of the few occasions where he was able to relax without some disaster somewhere requiring his attention, he watched the news.

It was on the BBC that he found the statistics and it grabbed his attention that foreign news was more interested in America than America in foreign countries. Perhaps it was the fact that it was where all the superheroes seemed to dwell, or perhaps it was the simpler fact that due to America's ridiculously massive size, there was simply not enough airing time in which to account for the news overseas. Either way, all of the foreign news channels had latched onto the latest study to be published solely about Gotham.

It was the twentieth study this year, and it revealed results claiming that nine in ten people in Gotham had been directly affected by the supervillains. The remaining one in ten had relatives or friends who had been directly affected. Such results, at least in the optimistic nature of sunrise, seemed to be fabricated lies as the peaceful city began to show signs of awakening. Sighing, and turning his attention to his lost teammate, J'onn sped onwards towards the Cave.

***

"J'onn!" exclaimed Flash, who sped over to greet the green alien.

"Where is it, J'onn?" asked Superman, voice laced with a concern and authority that had somehow overtaken the brief feelings of optimism, "We haven't got much time."

"Blackgate." stated J'onn, landing softly on the floor and walking over towards the terminal, where the League had gathered around the large screen.

"Blackgate?" asked Hawk Girl, as unknowledgeable as the rest of the group.

"It's a high security prison," explained Alfred, "They're planning to move some of the criminals there to Arkham, but it looks like they're saving that in the event that they run out of room at the other prisons."

"Why would they ever move the prisoners to Arkham?" asked the Flash intelligently, "Don't most of them work for the psychos that are locked up there?"

"That's the major argument against it," agreed Alfred, "That and the fact that they don't have the staff to deal with increased numbers. At least, not at the moment."

Tapping the name 'Blackgate' into the computer yielded a very optimistic pinging noise that proceeded to increase spirits by downloading the final section of the mysterious video file the group was so eager to view. The fact that it was a video file, and not an image, disconcerted some of the members of the League who knew Batman slightly better. For Alfred, whom had already decided that it was a bad thing, it was clearly not the location they wanted.

Lighting up cheerfully, the computer announced that the file had been downloaded successfully and that it could be viewed with a double click. Refusing to breathe, in case the file mysteriously deleted itself, Alfred double-clicked the file. The screen vanished, revealing a black, wide-screen image of darkness. It quickly lit up to show a somewhat apprehensive Bruce Wayne, surprisingly, not in his Batman costume. In fact, he looked more human and weak than ever.

"_You might have worked it out by now. I'm not giving you my location. I know where it is. They're very predictable. Instead, I'm telling you: __**don't**__ save me. Gotham is in trouble, __**again**__._"

"What's he saying?" asked Diana, her voice practically shaking with fear.

"Unfortunately, I think he's going to explain." sighed Alfred, voice broken.

"_The Joker always has an ace in the hole. This time, they're bombs. They're very big bombs, stolen from a military convoy about a year ago. If all of them go out, Gotham will almost certainly be blown off of the map. The locations you found are where the bombs are. They'll detonate at precisely six 'o' clock in the morning. Find and deactivate the bombs._"

"The fourteen hours will be up by then!" exclaimed Superman, voice laced with anger, "What the hell is he playing at? He'll be killed!"

"_If I'm right, they'll try to kill me at the exact same time. Frankly, for me, it's a no-brainer. Gotham comes first. If none of the bombs activate at six, my exact location will be automatically downloaded onto the computer. If __**any **__of the bombs go off, it won't._"

"He wants us to save Gotham over him?!" asked Green Lantern, "One of those bombs is in a prison! We could tell them to evacuate, let the bomb detonate and use that time to find him. What was he thinking?!"

"_You may have noticed I'm not wearing the costume. That's because, I'm not commanding, ordering or telling you as Batman. I'm __**asking**__ you as Bruce Wayne, as a friend. Save Gotham. I can wait._"

With that, the computer screen turned blank once more. The group fell silent in a collective horror as it dawned on them that the man had seemed to rule out evacuation as an option even though it was his life on the line. Though, the more the group dwelled on the facts, the more they began to realise that in his position, they'd do the same thing. Each of them would place others before themselves, particularly a city whose balance and allegiance changed daily from corruption to change.

"Okay, everyone should take the location they found," stated Superman, taking charge, "We have to do this. Alfred, you need to guide us through how to deactivate the bombs, do you-"

"I've had training in bomb disposal," assured Alfred calmly, though visibly concerned, shaken and wracked with worry, "I can deal with virtually all types."

"Sounds like a plan." declared the Flash, whacking his fist into his palm with renewed vigour.

"Okay, let's get going," snapped Diana, eager to get moving, "We only have twenty minutes until six."

Nodding in general consensus, the group (mostly) flew out of the Cave with a speed Alfred was only just able to comprehend. Frowning now that the heroes were gone, Alfred allowed his eyes to glaze over with the cursed salty liquid he had been holding in all night. Bruce was like a son. Thus, the two conflicting emotions of fury and worry fought for control within his heart. Speaking to the screen, Alfred found himself hoping that somehow, Bruce would be okay, despite knowing that the chances of such were depressingly low.

"Please," he whispered, "Just be okay."

***

Superman, squinting as the glistening solar coin rose above the horizon, flew towards one of the many hospitals in Gotham City. Gotham General wavered into view, flickering inconsistently as though it were somehow an intangible mirage. Diving towards it, the air struck his face with a ferocious temperature whose freezing nature seemed to tear at his skin. Upon landing at its entrance, Superman rubbed his cheeks that had turned pale as marble from the surprisingly sudden onslaught caused by an unexpected change in the weather.

Striving through the building, Superman observed the somehow alien normalcy of the building. Despite the early hours, nurses and doctors were busy moving from room to room, carrying paperwork, equipment or grave expressions. As he sauntered, with dogged determination visible on his face, through the building, the hospital workers would pause. They paused and watched the blue and red suit striding through the hospital. Their mouths would gape open, as though willing words to come out, but none stopped him. They just watched before shrugging and returning about their duties.

His x-ray vision functioned perfectly as the hospitals were some of the few buildings that had not been targeted by Batman's Superman-paranoia technology. Thus, it had taken him less than a minute to determine the location of the bomb whose size and make-up forced an expression of distinctive surprise onto his face. It was in a basement, taking up an entire office with its large and bulking mass. Though it appeared as though the panel for controlling it would be relatively easy to access, as all he would have to do would be to remove the door, the presence of several humans somehow extinguished the thought of ease.

"Found the bomb?" asked Alfred, "Given what information I have, it shouldn't be that hard."

"No, I've found it all right." replied Superman.

"Then why do you sound so concerned?" questioned Alfred.

"There are twenty humans down there," replied Superman, "At least fifteen of them have very large structures, I'd guess they are football players or something."

"I'm sure you can handle them," assured Alfred, "When you've taken care of them, tell me and we'll see what we can do about that bomb. Everyone else will be able to hear the instructions so, I'll only need give extra instructions if it's a different make or type."

"Okay." nodded Superman, who was descending down a staircase into what seemed to be complete darkness. Unusual for a hospital, he observed cautiously. Even on the stairs, dim lights had shown him where the step directly in front of him suddenly fell vertically. As such, the complete blackness he had entered into as he left the relative safety of the staircase, was all too apparent and foreboding. Darkness, in his vast experience, meant one of two things. Firstly, that it was night-time and you were being paranoid, and secondly that there was an ambush up ahead.

Discoloured skeletons warned him of the latter observation. They had seen him come down the stairs, when his blue-red suit was bathed in light, and as such, they knew he had entered. In their heads, this was a good thing. They had, in their excitement and threats of death from the Joker, forgotten that they were dealing with a superhero, not a highly-trained human being in a suit. The man in front of them had a body that could stop bullets. This was a fact they had clearly not remembered. Otherwise, they wouldn't have been stupid enough to have turned the lights on.

Rather than flickering and dimly bringing light to the room, as though awaking from sleep on a Monday morning, the lights snapped on; releasing bright and powerful rays of light. Everyone in the room, excluding Superman, whose blackened x-ray vision had acted as a protective shield over his eyes, convulsed violently as though the terrible lights were evil. Covering their eyes with their hands, as though this would somehow help, they were surprised and shocked to wake up five hours later in prison.

Superman, with ease and grace, had walked through the massive, heaving group and punched each one in the head. As they had been too busy aiding their eyes in adjusting, they had left themselves wide open to a blow from the man who had little time and patience to be honourable at that point. Thus, the group of twenty men fell on the floor and were collected by the police some time afterwards.

"Got to the bomb yet?" asked Alfred.

"Yeah," replied Superman, "And I must point out, the people who tried to ambush me need some serious lessons in ambushing. It was honestly quite a poor attempt."

"Unsurprising," agreed Alfred, "Bruce's always saying that the class of common criminal in the city has fallen quite drastically. Good for him either way."

"True," nodded Superman, "Wish they were this bad at ambushing in Metropolis."

"Hello?" admonished Wonder Woman aggressively, "We don't have time for chit-chat."

"Sorry." said Superman quietly.

"Okay," began Alfred, "You need to tell me what make of bomb it is: then we'll go from there. The make will be the code on the inside of the panel lid. It will also have the NET weight there if you're interested."

"Right!"

***

Feathered wings fluttered delicately in what little breeze blew high in the sky. Hawk Girl's sharp eyes scanned the cityscape of Gotham, observing its relative and surprising beauty. The golden orb of sunlight bathed the city in a warmth of light. Glistening like water against the glass windows of the skyscrapers, the brightness began to take the city and engulf it into a pale, beautiful landscape where it seemed as though no harm could ever befall any of its inhabitants.

Sighing and diving, she plunged towards City Hall. Suddenly, the wind turned sour, somehow disliking her change of tempo. It attacked her exposed mouth and battered at her lips until they had resigned themselves to becoming chipped and charred later that week. Though landing delicately, it felt as though a tonne weight had been placed on her shoulders. Looking upwards, she walked over to the entrance, that, she was surprised to find, was guarded.

Eyeing her nervously, the guards opened their mouths to speak, moving in front of the door to prevent her entering. Almost growling, she uttered the intolerable word, 'bomb' and raised the electrified mace that was gripped tightly by her hand. They quickly moved aside and she entered without so much as acknowledging them. She was on a mission and she was not going to let any stupid humans get in her way. Thus, she found it pleasant when she discovered that the guards at the front had radioed the building to warn them of her presence.

"Done!" exclaimed Superman happily, "That was surprisingly easy."

"We _do _have someone trained in bomb disposal talking us through it." added the Green Lantern, seeming to admonish Superman for the apparent naïveté he was showing.

"Why is it you and Batman know so much about bomb disposal?" asked the Flash, stupidly.

"Don't bother answering that, Alfred." stated Hawk Girl.

"Anyone else found a bomb yet?" asked Alfred, "Superman, could you fly over to everyone's building and tell them where the bomb is."

"Sure, not a problem," stated Superman. This was followed by a long period of radio silence, in which, presumably, Superman was flying over to the various buildings. He explained, once he had located all of the bombs, "City Hall, the cabinet in the reception office. Iceberg Club, in the office at the back of the club. Indoor Concert Center, storage room B in the basement. GCPD Headquarters, in the parking lot at the back in the back of one of the police vans. Blackgate prison, in cell '24AB009'. Everyone's got about twenty thugs protecting the bombs."

"Be careful everyone." ordered the Green Lantern.

A silent but consensual 'of course' seemed to burble through the radio despite the distinct lack of sound. The silence was broken by Superman being told by Alfred to go back to the Cave. Hawk Girl sighed loudly. Though not being in reception, as she had paced and gotten herself lost during the radio conference, the glistening golden signs directed her to it. Receiving odd but silent looks from the few members walking around the building who had not heard the radio message, Hawk Girl powered through the labyrinth of rooms until finding the reception with its door slightly ajar. Peeking inside, she sighed.

_They really __**do **__suck at ambushing.___observed Hawk Girl with a lethargic sigh. The group of thugs had dressed up as reception workers and visitors. Given the early hour, the number of workers and visitors was clearly inaccurate. It was almost laughable. That and the visible bits of rope that had been badly hidden beneath chairs behind bags with misshapen poles of metal within them, made her want to laugh. It was a preposterously bad ambush. It briefly occurred to her, that, maybe, just maybe, it was meant to be an awfully-planned ambush.

The reasons behind such a theory, she could not distinguish and so she decided not to ponder on them. After all, they only had ten minutes left and the Joker had, in the past, shown that, unless interfered with, his plans never failed. Kicking the door in, it fell and flew off its hinges, landing uncomfortably onto the backs of two thugs who promptly fell unconscious from the force of the blow. She leapt into the room and slammed the heads of two goons into each other, knocking the two into a deep sleep before they could register the missing door.

Leaping over the desk with the grace of a free-runner, she punched one into unconsciousness before electrocuting an exposed metal pipe that three thugs had physical contact with. Shocked into sleep, they collapsed to the floor. Mentally, Hawk Girl observed that the remaining eleven criminals were so surprised, that there was a small six second gap in which they would be unable to react to her. Pouncing onto two more villains, they were efficiently plunged into the realms of sleep before being used to jointly knock unconscious a criminal who was tending to the two beneath the door.

_Nine left. _she noticed as she rammed her mace into another man's solar plexus. Winded, he was then knocked out by a calculated punch to the head. Leaping over his body, Hawk Girl blocked a blow from a metal pole, and allowed electricity to flow freely from her mace into the man, electrocuting him to sleep. _Seven left. _Two charged at her carelessly, clearly so wrapped up in fear that they lost all common sense. Jumping into the air and hovering there, her feet were the instruments that knocked them unconscious as they came into range. Landing in between their sleeping bodies, she crouched and looked up fiercely at the remaining five.

Fearing naively for their lives, the five ran out of the room. Though wishing to chase them down and make sure they got locked up, Hawk Girl had more important matters to attend to. Walking over to a cabinet, which lay behind the reception desk, she untied the hostage workers and allowed them to seek out medical attention and call the police. Hawk Girl waited until they had left before opening the cabinet for inside was a large, metallic beeping machine that was of a different make to the one she had heard before.

Sighing, she observed that it was going to be a long five minutes.

***

The Flash had had no problems in dealing with his thugs as his lightening speed meant that he could knock them all unconscious whilst heading towards the bomb. The group didn't even realise that the red blur speeding away from them was the very thing that had blurred their vision and sent them unconscious. The Flash, as usual, had been quite assured by his easy victory and proceeded to open up the door to the office. Expecting a small minute thing in the centre of the room, he took a physical step back in surprise.

The giant metallic monster took up the space of the entire room. How they had gotten the damn thing in there was a question that probed the Flash's mind until he realised that it was counting down and he only had ten minutes in which to deactivate it. Lifting the machine's surprisingly light and delicate flimsy panel lid, he examined that it was in fact the same make as the one Superman had seen. Smiling, and contacting Superman only to make sure that his information was accurate, he set about deactivating the bomb.

However, fate had other plans. Over-confidence had made Flash inaccurate and the final thug he had apparently knocked out, had awoken from his pretend nap. Silently, the black-clad villain picked up the weapon he had dropped. The electrified pole thrilled and purred excitedly. Glistening and pulsating with blue and yellow sparks, the machine urged the villain to attack the brightly coloured superhero. Needing no further encouragement, the thug approached the hero silently, if moving somewhat drunkenly.

A sharp, surprising pain coursed through the Flash's body. Held paralyzed by its power, he was frozen until the electrical current ceased its flow. His body crumpled to the floor, sizzling slightly. Within, his body felt as though it were on fire with pins and needles. Glaring upwards, he observed the villain he had not knocked out properly. Frowning he tried to speed to a distance, but found that his legs buckled and became unresponsive, unwilling to proceed at such speeds after an electrical shock of such sudden magnitude.

Approaching with a victorious smile, the thug approached once again. Flash, frustrated at the embarrassment the electrocution had caused, swept the feet from under the man. The man fell ungracefully to the floor and whacked his head off a conveniently placed stool. Though the Flash was about to walk away, assured the villain was safely unconscious. He punched the man in the head to make sure. He did _not_ want to be electrocuted again.

"You nearly done, Flash?" asked Superman.

"Yeah," replied Flash, "Okay, what was the last bit?"

"Cut the red one." stated Superman simply.

"The red one?" asked Flash nervously, "All the wires are black!"

"I know," retorted Superman, "One of the wires has a red ring around it at the far left hand side where it connects to the rest of the machine. You cut that one. All the other rings should be blue or yellow. Only cut the red one."

"Oh, right," said Flash, "Deactivating bombs makes you feel like a real hero."

"…" began Superman, "Not really. Get back here when you're done."

"Miserable sod."

"You left your radio on, Flash."

"Aha, ha, whoops."

"Yup."

***

Diana had very little patience with the alarm system in the Indoor Concert Center. So she broke it. Her fist took great satisfaction at seeing the little sensors explode beneath it. Running through the deserted, blacked out building, she launched herself down the stairs with inhuman speed. At the bottom, a large collection of incredibly stupid men sat around tables playing card games. She frowned distinctly. Had she not been slightly reserved, a threatening growl would have echoed from her throat.

The man closest to her on her right was about to say something undeniably sexist and suggestive but his lower jaw, she was happy to report, had been dislodged and harshly removed from its joint sockets. That particular fool collapsed to the floor unconscious, finding time to look surprised and grasp his abused lower jaw. Shocked and stunned, the other men ran forwards all at once to try and take down the superwoman. It was a stupid and incredibly poorly thought out move.

There were five men who ran faster than the others, and so reached her at a much faster rate. These five also running at different speeds and so she could punch each one into unconsciousness before the others arrived anywhere near her. _Six down, fourteen to go_. Three men had not run over but were instead trying to load unfriendly guns. Smiling slightly, Diana launched the golden loop at them, snagging them as though they were fish. Pulling the glistening line with all of her strength, she walloped them into the two men running to the far left of the group. _Eleven down._

Releasing the golden thread, she resorted to simple hand to hand combat to finish off the remaining nine. They were poorly trained and she found that she had taken out two with virtually no effort as the men behind them had been punching them in the back to get them to move. Though one fist managed to hit her left cheek, it was met with immediate and unnecessarily violent response. The man flew into the far wall and the remaining men shortly followed him, only into different walls. Recovering her golden thread, she kicked the face of one man who had briefly recovered from unconsciousness to try and grab her boot.

She jogged lightly over to the room that was marked 'Storage Room B' through use of a golden plaque. Sighing, the pulled open the door. Again, she took a step back. She wasn't expecting the bomb to take up the entire room. She frowned, supposing that perhaps Bruce was justified in his concern for Gotham. Given the size of the bombs, it would have been unsurprising if they would have been able to take out the entire city. Lifting the flimsy panel, she observed it was the same make that Flash had discovered.

Overhearing the instructions being given to the Flash, she followed them precisely, disarming the bomb a minute before the Flash did. Though, that was entirely due to the Flash arguing with Superman. Looking wistfully at the device, she quickly distracted herself and made her way out of the building, pausing by the reception desk to ring the police and inform them of the situation. No doubt they were already on route, but an early warning of the devastation in the basement would be warmly received, so they could request ambulances.

***

The Green Lantern had no issue whatsoever with entering the parking lot of GCPD. They had seen he was a superhero, recognising him from the news and let him in. They told him to help himself to the vending machine, giving him some change, and that Commissioner Gordon would be down shortly. Within that 'shortly' two minutes had passed and the Flash had requested Superman's aide in dealing with a bomb.

From the stairs, an exhausted, glass-wearing man emerged. Wearing a plain suit, he stumbled down the stairs drunkenly, as though just having woken up. He appeared to be moving towards the latter part of middle-aged but it was difficult to be accurate as his exhaustion aged him significantly. Behind the glasses, despite the lethargy, bright, intelligent and powerful eyes burned with energy and youthful vitality. Extending a hand, the man introduced himself as Commissioner Gordon.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," explained the Green Lantern, accepting the handshake, "Batman praises your work quite highly."

"Really?" scoffed Gordon, "Wouldn't kill him to say it to my face once in a while. Why're you here? I take it this isn't a social visit."

"You're sharp." complimented GL.

"Have to be if you want to survive in Gotham," came the response, "Have you heard anything off him? It'll be the main headline today, it got leaked at about one."

"Yes and no," explained GL, "It's complicated but we have more important matters. There's a bomb in one of the police vans at the back, there should be some criminals out there as well. We have to deal with them before we find Batman."

"There's a bomb!?" asked Jim Gordon, surprised, "We've dealt with the criminals, dealt with them about two hours ago when the guys on CCTV spotted them. I'll get bomb disposal down there."

"I know how to disarm it," offered GL, "I've got instructions."

"Yes well," refused Gordon, "We've had our fair share of bombs in Gotham and, trust me, our bomb squad can deactivate it in two minutes."

"Impressive."

"Unfortunately, they get a lot of practice," stated Gordon as he signalled for someone to send the bomb squad to deactivate the bomb whose location they had only just established. He then returned his attention to the Green Lantern, "How's he doing? Any idea?"

"Not well," replied GL, feeling as though Gordon deserved to be told the truth, "He's pretty roughed up and from what J'onn can gather, he could have a collapsed lung. He'll be alright if we can get to him in the ten minutes but we can't say after that."

"You better get going then." stated Gordon with a perfectly straight face, only his eyes betrayed deep concern and worry. Nodding, GL shook his hand once more and left the building, hovering into the sky surrounded by a green light.

***

J'onn was the last to find the bomb, and he was thankfully unharmed after his battle with the thugs who were very easy to knock unconscious. It was clear that they had never dealt with a superhero before as they had frozen in fear as he phased through the floor. Blackgate being a prison, it was very easy to find an empty cell in which to throw all twenty of them into. Finding the cell with the bomb in though, was a slightly more difficult task.

It was only when he decided to ask a prison guard that he found the cell. Within it was a massive bomb, and how it got there without anyone noticing would be a mystery for the proceeding inquiry to solve. Frowning, he took a mere minute to disarm the bomb and required no instructions or advice on how to do so. His phasing ability made the process much cleaner and smoother than it would have been for some of the other heroes within the League.

He then, as with the rest of the League members, signalled that he had completed his task and headed back to the Cave with the speed of a demon. Once reassembled, the group crowded around the terminal and were surprised to find that when none of the bombs went off, rather than an image or location being give, a video message was downloaded. Frowning distinctly, Alfred opened up the video file and the League watched, curious and concerned.

"_Thanks for doing as I asked. Now, I can already tell you're not going to like this, but listen. The fourteen hours which I had ran out fifty minutes ago. I lied. The location is at the end of this video and you've saved Gotham,_" a rare smile passed on his face, "_But, please, be prepared for the worst. Just in case._"

The group fell silent, praying that the devil had not won.

**A/N: Happy Easter!**

**Part Two will be much much shorter in comparison to this chapter. I only split it because the word count was getting ridiculous. **

**Part Two will be up as quickly as possible. And another thanks to everyone who reads, reviews and favourites and stuff. **

**Also, due to constant questioning, there will be an explanation as to the lack of the Bat family. In the last chapter (which is not the next one).**


	15. Der Teufel Part II

Coalition

Chapter Fourteen: Der Teufel

'Diverse, sheer opposite, antipodes. The one pours out a balm upon the world, the other vexes it.' John Keats

Part Two

It was an astoundingly rare feat of human compassion, coming from _him _anyway. It was unexpected and surprising, the silence seemed to last an eternity. He had entered the room, in his familiarly garish outfit of ghostly purple and forest green, and just stood there. In the far corner. Occasionally looking towards the watch on his wrist. As though waiting for something. It was peculiar, then again, the hero had learned many years ago that this was a man whose mind was truly unreadable, unpredictable.

The silence continued to surprise the hero as its delicate deafness meant that the smallest sound echoed numbly and loudly around the room. It felt, though the feeling was a mental fabrication, as if the uncontrollable sociopath could hear his very heart beat. He eventually decided to test the silence, hoping its stillness was not another superbly orchestrated trap. As the straps holding him to the fortunately metal framed chair were relatively weak, he could begin the process of breaking them. Provided, that was, that it wasn't a trap. Warily, he observed that the two sharply glistening orbs leapt towards him as he tensed his muscles.

The tensed, groaning muscles contracted along his arms uncomfortably and his awareness was suddenly widened as he the dull throbs of wounds began to moan to his brain. Silencing them, he sharply snapped his arms upwards. The straps squeaked and stretched from the effort, seeming to turn to tearing taffy. To the Bat's immense surprise, there was only the continued observation of the sparkling orbs to signal any interest in his escape. Taking this as a positive sign, he continued to pull at the straps who groaned each time as though they were experiencing physical pain.

It was during his attacks on the straps that contained him, that he noticed the collapsed lung in greater detail. Its effects were becoming more profound, more visible, which could only mean that the wound's severity was increasing second by second. Blood, whose texture was akin to that of toothpaste, welled up constantly in his chest until he coughed it into his mouth and exhumed it. His breath was continually contracting, leaving him panting and breathless all the time. His face had also begun turning pale, threatening blue, and sweat seemed to freeze onto his face due to its low temperature.

Furthermore, symptoms of shock were becoming all too evident. A desperate thirst tore at his throat and the drying desert of cracked blood left as its lining did little to aid the situation. Nausea gripped his stomach with a freezing cold hand of frost. He felt as though his stomach would convulse and reveal its content anytime, and every time, he moved. He also, though not whilst lying down, expected a dizziness to take hold of his brain and balance; an expectation that would later turn out to be cleverly deduced. Whilst shock was unlikely to cause his death, of which the collapsed lung was a more likely contender, it would certainly be capable of plunging him into unconsciousness if left untreated.

The straps eventually snapped with a loud echoing crack. Once free, his hands rubbed his wrists frantically as, had he not been wearing his armour, the task of freeing himself may well have resulted in burns on his wrist joints: the rubbing was a purely instinctive reaction. Sitting up on the table, a deep groan sounded from his throat. As though awaking to severe muscular pain after exercise, his body's nervous system signalled once again its discontent at its general mistreatment. Ignoring it for the umpteenth time, he released the straps securing his ankles in place and slowly began the task of dismounting the torture table.

Turning to the side which held his collapsed lung, so as not to force bloody mess onto the healthy one, he pushed himself onto his front. His legs seemed to dangle precariously until they connected with the floor. Foolishly placing trust in them, he removed his hands, and weight, from the table's frame. Straining under the unfamiliar dead weight, his legs bucked at the knees. Sent plunging into the ground, his body forced an audible gasp of pain and surprise. Once on the floor, he decided that it was not a terrible idea to remain there. Tilting his body so that the collapsed lung lay beneath its healthy and functioning counterpart, he rested.

The seemingly scarce sea of oxygen took pity on him as he panted heavily, attempting to regain the saviour element, and suddenly, he found himself able to breathe a bit easier. However, he could not relax. His muscles were tensed and had seemed to turn to solid stone from the effort. Beating frantically, as though panicked by a terror unseen, his heart unleashed torrent after torrent of fresh, new blood. Some of the wounds, the two stab wounds in particular, had begun to seep the red vitality once again. For the fifth time in his life, he could feel his body slipping away. Humans, to his annoyance, only have so much blood.

_What's he up to? _pondered the battered Bat as his sapphire blue eyes descended upon the Joker whose silence had not yet been disturbed by anything but the Bat's efforts to free himself, _What's he waiting for?_

As though sensing the Dark Knight's thoughts, the Joker looked down at his watch. The small device glistened brightly, ticking with perfectly timed ingenuity, in the harsh and unsympathetic light. A hideous smile snuck upon the Clown's disfigured face. It was a smile of one satisfied, one victorious, the face a cat often wears. Thus, when he left the room, a concerned frown fell upon Batman's face. This concern turned to something bordering on fear as the sociopath re-entered the room: in his hand, a silver machine of murderous monstrosity, known by the name of 'Mistah AK-47'.

"Well, Batsy," sang the voice, "You're still alive! Congratulations, you deserve a medal. Trouble is, we haven't got any! That's a shame."

Eyes trained on the overpowered weapon in his right hand, Batman managed to blot out the Clown's taunting. He managed to blot out the rhythmic rise and fall of the Joker's voice, whose sentences seemed full of genuine childish admiration at one point and the next, full of satirical, sarcastic scepticism. It was a skill he'd picked up a while back but, thankfully, it appeared as though the villain had yet to work it out.

The gun, as trapped as Batman, was swung about madly: a victim of the Joker's eccentric physical behaviour. Occasionally, when directly referring to the soon-to-be bullet container, the gun's barrel would aim at it before being swung away as other verbs and nouns were introduced to the sentence. It was laughable to compare the gun to the victim, given the many contrasts and implications. Yet, Batman found the connections all too easy to make, in his weakened state anyway.

"It surprises me," stated the Clown, hopping over and crouching down before the Bat's head, "That you're just lying there! You should stand up when someone's talking to you."

Close up, the change in personality was strikingly and terrifyingly obvious. It was not just his vocal patterns that leapt about widely, imitating a rollercoaster, the emotions visible in his eyes seemed to alter drastically in a similarly short space of time. There was suddenly a calculated, furious insanity that glazed his eyes. It quickly served as a reminder to the Bat as to why the Joker was a psychopath to be feared above all others. Instinctive fear, a thing Bruce had long believed himself to have mastered, grasped at his throat, mimicking the strong, thick, purple gloved hand that held it.

"It's truly," hissed the Joker venomously, eyes brimming with excitable hatred, lifting up Batman by the throat with a previously hidden strength, "Unforgivably rude."

Choking as though the process of breathing itself was a chore, the Bat had little time or effort to waste concerning himself with how the Joker was lifting him. All he could do was grapple in a desperately panicked fashion with his hands and attempt to release the death grip. Eyes closed, as otherwise they would bulge painfully, he suddenly felt all too helpless. The Joker had him by the throat. He could feel his legs kick as they dangled pathetically. With strangulation depriving his one healthy lung of oxygen, he could feel his body turning numb.

"Bats," declared the Joker with a voice as deathly cold as a morgue and tightening his grip slightly, "I could kill you right now."

Body yearning for air, he began kicking, clawing, anything to release the grip and get some oxygen. Though unable to see, he could _feel _that madman smiling. To check he was right, as though without evidence the knowledge wasn't real, he opened a glistening blue eye. His eyes were releasing salty clear liquid that he could feel running over his mask and into his gaping, gasping, breathless mouth. The smile was there: huge, twisted, sickening. It was obvious and always had been, that the Joker was a vampire who lived to see others suffer, to see others fall and crumple to his feet before he let them in on his joke. His killing joke.

"But I won't," stated the Clown, as though suddenly bored with the idea. Powerfully, Batman was launched into the table, toppling it over and landing in a terribly ungraceful heap a foot away from the wall, "Not yet, anyway."

Heaving and ever so slowly dying, he pulled himself to his feet. He was a broken, bloody mess and it was a miracle that he was still able to stand. Barely breathing and on the verge of collapsing, Batman glared at his eternal adversary. A smile a mile wide lifted the chins on the Clown's face. Flexing seemingly new muscles, the Joker sauntered forwards. Batman steadied himself, moving backwards so he could use the wall to make up for the distinct deficit in his strength.

"Wish to say anything?" asked the Joker, "Eh, Batsy?"

His mouth opened. The sentence formed perfectly in his mind. Yet his throat had created an unfamiliar, animalistic, cracked growl. It was the sound of a defiant, wounded animal. He himself knew full well that the extent of his injuries were probably fatal but he was determined, inhumanly so. In fact, several superheroes had themselves claimed that Batman's superpower was his indomitable will. Batman bowed before no one, particularly if he disliked or disagreed with them. Therefore, despite his critical wounds, he would not bow down before the sociopath, he would place every remaining ounce of his soul into defeating him.

"Can't even talk! How about that?" inquired the Joker, wielding the killing machine as a club until it suited him otherwise, "Well, this is going to be terribly anticlimactic! It'll be so terribly boring without your clever little quips."

"I…" began the Bat, pausing to clear his throat with a tiny amount of saliva, "I'm sure you'll find a way to entertain yourself."

"You spoke!" exclaimed the Joker before adding with a much lower tone, "I wonder how long that'll last."

And so it began. The purple blur covered the distance in a flash. Able to follow the movement, Batman was proficient enough to duck. The silver sword swooshed over his head at lightning speeds. A leap followed the gun's movement, so a leg aimed for his ribcage. Rolling as he dove to the floor, he cleared the overturned table with relative ease. Face to face once again, Batman rose to his feet, only to find that his dodging had worsened his physical condition significantly.

"Not bad, Bats," congratulated the surprisingly athletic Joker, "Let's see if you can keep it up!"

Looking up from a pant, he was forced to sidestep a left-handed punch. Unable to identify its true nature, he was whacked in the side of the head by the metal club. Vision blurring, he staggered dizzily until a powerful kick to his solar plexus fired him into the red-stained wall behind him. Gasping a silent outcry of pain, he sank to the floor. Falling onto hands and knees, his arms began to shake and shiver violently as if it was impossible to hold the weight. He looked up to find the opalised orbs shimmering back.

"That didn't last long, now did it?" admonished the villain haughtily, "You sure you can stay alive long enough for your Big Finish?!"

The statement was followed by echoing, operatic laughter that filled the tiny room with as much ease as it would a concert hall. Frowning, and using the small gap to his advantage, he pushed his right leg underneath his chest and drove himself to a standing position. Limping and staggering, bleeding and moving ever closer towards Death, the Batman stared his foe into an early silence. Taking a brief second to reflect, he allowed himself to question why he was left with all the athletic, physically strong psychopaths when there were plenty of _actually _super-powered superheroes out there. This was why Bruce was an agnostic: clearly something up there had it in for him.

"You really do never give up!" marvelled the Joker, "Your determination is almost sickening."

Needing violence to distract himself from his disgust, the Joker closed the gap between them. A kick to the comparatively heavily shielded shin allowed Batman to block a left hook that was covering for the gun. The gun, unfortunately, successfully landed its blow which manifested as being rammed into the Bat's abdomen. Grimacing in pain, Batman slumped to the floor on hands and knees. A kick to his unguarded stomach sent him flying onto his back where he lay until the Joker's taunts provided the necessary break for him to pick himself back up.

"More like a rat," spat the Clown in between hysterical fits of roaring laughter, "Than a bat, Bats!"

An attempted sigh turned to a heavy pant, his body felt limp and numb. It was pathetic. He wasn't able to dodge or parry blows from _the Joker_ of all people. Grinding his molars, he forced himself to his feet. The Joker took no time in marvelling at his opponent's determination. The Batman, fed up of taking hits, decided to inflict some of his own. However, the Joker had grown bored of that particular game and was firmly set in his decision for a newer and far more deadly game.

Batman allowed, due to his lethargy, his body to follow his punch. Dragged along wheresoever the punch landed, any control he could have had immediately vanished. He had wrongly assumed that the Joker would block, parry or counterattack. As a result, when the Clown side-stepped, Batman flew into the wall at full speed. Yelling when his ribcage came into contact with the wall, he stumbled backwards, dazed and found himself quickly restrained in a headlock.

_People just love strangling me today, _snapped Batman mentally as he felt the Joker's elbow joint attempting to crush his throat, _This needs to end soon. I can't hold out. I never thought I'd say this but, I really wish they'd hurry up._

"I'm getting tired of this, Batsy," droned the Joker, "We all are. Even you. It's a boring, predictable thing nowadays: we do bad, you lock us up, we escape, you lock us up, we escape, you lock us up… etcetera."

Batman was suddenly dropped, released from the headlock. He could hardly contain his surprise. Bemused, Batman managed to drag himself to his feet. He stared at the Joker, confused as ever, and took a step forwards. Despite being able to hold the weight, his leg visible shook from the effort. Another hideous smile stretched across the Clown's face. When Batman next looked up, he found the Joker leering at him from behind a crosshair. Familiar fear held Batman's heart, threatening to send him back to a younger age.

"I'm afraid," began the Joker, sighing regrettably, "That this might just be the end."

Eyes widening slightly, Batman found himself unable to react, to move. The deafening crackle of gunfire plunged the silence into a brief cacophony of violent noise. A pained cry signalled a return to the silence as small, delicate streams of smoke wafted upwards from the gun's nose. Hot, thick, new blood smacked the floor with a heavy splat. A loud gasping groan droned, almost inaudibly, beneath the silence. Grasping the bullet holes, Batman wished with all his being that the Bright Colours Brigade would show up soon.

"Jeez, Batsy!" announced the Joker mockingly, "That's an awful lot of blood! And all from that one thigh? I knew you weren't much of a _screamer_, but boy, you are one heck of a _bleeder_!"

_I'm not sure I'll make it this time, _reflected Bruce silently within the chaos of Batman, _Even if I stop him, the wounds are… I can't even think straight. Damn. _

He didn't hear the Joker skipping over. His pain infested mind barely registered the discomfort caused by an abdominal kick that sent him flying onto his back. When his eyes opened, they were blinded by blurry light. Coughing, spluttering and virtually completely unable to breathe, he could feel the drowning sensation beginning to remove his awareness of pain. Another cackle from the gun as fireworks exploded from it and lodged in his left calf assured that the lack of oxygen fell behind pain in his list of mental priorities.

He knew the bullets had been laced with poison but there was so much pain that he barely noticed. The shriek of the machine as it unleashed another crackling round of bullets into his leg was deafening. His body flinched, convulsed, grimaced without his permission. Trying to bring his knees into his chest, a heavy weight stopped the movement. Opening his eyes again, he was happy to see that the lights had been dimmed and blotted out. Moving his eyes to the source of the weight on his chest, a frown contorted his face.

The purple shoe pressed heavily down on his chest, straining and confusing his heart. Silently screaming, Batman took several seconds to notice the gigantic glistening gun of silver hovering within the peripheries of his vision. Staring dead ahead, the gun sat ominously between his eyes. Directly behind the gun were the two orbs that shimmered with excitement. All it would take was a slight, small pressure on the trigger. A tiny tap on the sensitive trigger and ten bullets would be released into his brain, killing him straight.

_Perhaps I should have taken Dick's advice, _observed Bruce morbidly, _I guess headshots __**are**__ genuine threats against my life. _

"We've had some good times, Batsy, old pal," declared the Joker, "But, I guess this really is the end. TTFN, Bats! I'll see you in hell."

The gun sang out.

**A/N: It's a pretty cruel cliffhanger as far as they go. **

**I've decided to get the Bat family in there but it's by no means the complete one, being as this is set quite early on in Batman's career so no Oracle or Nightwing.**

**I'll update as soon as possible, being as how cruel this particular cliffhanger is. I hope you enjoyed reading it! Until the cliffhanger, which, as I've said before, is just evil.**


	16. Le Cauchemar Finit Part I

Coalition

Chapter Fifteen: Le cauchemar finit

'The truest wisdom is a resolute determination' Napoleon Bonaparte

Part One

The few citizens fortunate enough to be awake as early as they were that morning, may have been noticed a few brightly coloured, indistinguishable blurs fire through the skies. They would, of course, have dismissed the vision until they came across the headline of that day. As overnight, whilst the city, mostly, slept peacefully, a series of events had unfolded. From what little details the media had amassed, it was clear that the Batman had been trapped and captured by some of the city's most dangerous psychopaths, that Gotham had once again been threatened with complete obliteration and that the Justice League had been called in. Even for Gotham, waking up to that sort of news was just plain weird.

Soaring through the skies at speeds just detectable by the naked eye in the form of a blur, the majority of the League flew towards their given location. Flash, following on rooftops, sped ahead, forging the way. Nothing would have been capable of stopping them, even if it was stupid enough to try. Determination had set itself in stone upon their features. Distantly, many minutes behind them, the wails and shrieks of sirens sang out. Gordon had pulled out all of the stops and so had the League: they _would _save him.

It was so obvious as the building fell into view. An abandoned block of flats stood just twenty metres away from its demolished counterpart whose fate it was scheduled to share later that very month. Short and stubby in comparison to its modern rivals, the building was situated on Gotham's very borders and so they may never have found it, had it not been for Batman's information. Scanning the building, Superman was frustrated to admit that he had found them. He told himself that he should have looked everywhere, not just in the city centre and so his burden weighed him down even before he had seen the battlefield.

Handling the situation as the Green Lantern had ordered, the League split into two teams. One would take the floor above, on the floor below. Refusing to waste any more time, the trios dove through the windows, falling through the shattered glass as though it were water. Rolling and leaping to their feet, they found the corridors empty. Proceeding in silence, they ran up the stairs, meeting the team who had leapt down them. They paused. Blueprints, provided by Alfred, showed that the floor had been altered into two large rooms. Collectively sighing with a detectable level of anxiousness, Superman kicked the door in.

Thrown violently from its hinges, the door let loose a terrifying thud as it connected with the floor. Yelling at similarly deafening decibels, the League stormed into the first room, voices echoing like thunder. They tensed their muscles and prepared themselves for imminent attack. Yet, they were greeted only by silence. Frowning, the six pairs of eyes scanned the room. It was the orchestra of rhythmic, sleeping breathing that dragged their attention to the far side of the room. Tables and chairs leading to the area obscured their view but as they approached, all became clear.

The room was larger than its sibling and took the form of an unusually wide rectangle. The room's walls were painted white and strangely sterile. The ceiling consisted of polystyrene tiles within which were contained small, circular lights. The floor was coated by a cheap, durable, grey carpet that seemed surprisingly well-treated. It was clear that the tables and chairs had been viciously thrown and carelessly toppled because, as they approached the quiet sleeping quivers, they observed that some were lying beneath chairs, others on tables. Something had caused the devastation in the room and the handcuffs around the wrists of the villains sparked hope in their hearts.

However, upon closer inspection, it became apparent that some were missing. With their collective knowledge, the League was able to identify the major criminals present but became concerned when the absence of the Scarecrow and the Joker dawned on them. Two of the villains they knew should have been there were missing. The hope in their hearts deflated, punctured by icy cold realism. They found, buried in shattered pieces beneath a table, a microphone and its various technological assortments. The significance of the broken item did not register as they found the rectangular window that showed the Other Room. Collectively, they stared.

It took five long seconds for the image to be understood in their brains. From what little carnage was visible through the looking-glass, the League had temporarily been paralysed. They'd all seen horrific sights before: natural disasters, wars, relief efforts; they knew what violence could do. They'd all had their fair shares of death traps, taunts and such the like but never before had they seen a sight like the one before them. J'onn was the only one who could claim to even being close but even then, the devastation he had seen had not, with so much vindictiveness, been targeted at a single person. As soon as the horror had registered in their minds, the door was pulled off its hinges.

The white room was stained by bright blots of blood which had splattered themselves all over the room, leaving no wall clean. An overturned table had a significant dent and its metal frame seemed to sizzle silently as invisible waves of heat fluttered from it. Splinters and red-stained shards of brown wood coated the white padded floor with an ocean of destruction. Oxidising metal shimmered intermittently within the mess. A medical turned torture device sat on the floor, darkly observing the scene and seeming to smile, contented with its role in the events. The room was small and padded but the bright blood drew attention away from such details.

"My God," sighed Superman breathlessly, "What the hell happened here?"

His voice rattled around the room. His eyes and body were drawn to a puddle of blood that sat in front of one of the walls. He placed his hand in it and immediately regretted the action. It was a coagulated gloopy red mess. It smelt raw with its noticeably iron tang. Though bright red when the light fell upon its sickeningly smooth iridescent surface, in Superman's shadow, it was a disgusting black concoction of brownish clumps. Withdrawing his hand sharply, his face contorted by horror, he leapt backwards into Wonder Woman who was thrown slightly off balance by the sudden movement. Each of them had been hypnotised by the bloodied room.

"You don't want to know," coughed a familiarly mysterious yet audibly broken voice, "Trust me."

Simultaneously, the League span around, their faces contorted by so many emotions that it was impossible to identify the strongest. In the corner, hidden by the shadow's veil, surrounded by bloody brown blots, stood a figure. Its eyes glistened dimly and the thing was undetectable in all manners except that it had revealed itself through speech. It sounded wounded and its doubled-over structure gave weight to the observation. Silently stepping forwards, light rained down upon them, bathing them in a purity they had not seen for what felt like a lifetime.

"BATS!" exclaimed Flash, blurring forwards to, though not thinking much of it, embrace the broken, black bat in a hug, "You're alive!"

"Flash," grunted Batman, voice audibly laced with pain, relief and annoyance. Pain and annoyance were the two most prominent emotions clear in his voice, "Ribs. Broken. Crushing."

"Oh!" declared Flash, releasing the hero and stepping backwards, hands held in the air as though Batman were threatening him with a gun, "Sorry!"

"Bruce…" began Diana, approaching the battered being with an obviously caring delicacy. She paused quite a distance away from him and looked him over, horrified by the extent of his injuries. The League followed her example, observing the damaged hero with surprise and empathy. The wounds were far beyond what they had been prepared to expect, but they observed, they had been warned. The entire group was little over two metres away from him, as though frightened to get any closer in case they made it worse.

Blood coated his black armour like a disease, covering it in a thick layer as though attempting to imitate moss on a dead tree. It was difficult to locate skin beneath the armour as wet, fresh red liquid cleverly disguised it. The right breast place of his armour was missing down to an irritated and burnt section of skin, surrounded by the armour which was smouldering at the edges. A similar injury had been obtained by a section underneath his left arm. Two obvious stab wounds continued to bleed profusely, unleashing blood as though trying to mimic a waterfall, only instead of rolling beautifully over rocks, the thick, red liquid oozed over the bumps of the armour.

In both of his thighs, several bullet-shaped holes could be seen and from those wounds, blood seeped inconsistently, as though something was blocking the flow. His legs were visibly shaking, shivering as though entrapped by a vicious, biting cold. In fact, his entire body seemed to be suffering from some terrible temperature that simply wasn't present. His body was ever so slightly doubled-over, as though he had recently been winded and it appeared as though it was sheer will keeping him on his feet. The black cape, which hung limply and lifelessly, was torn viciously and was totally unusable. It, too, was ever so slightly damp in the red paint that coated the walls and floor.

His eyes were tired, barely alive. The sparkling blue ocean had been obscured by a dull overcast grey sky of exhaustion. The eyes kept wandering, and the eyelids kept fluttering, as though it were an amazing effort to simply stay awake. His breathing was audibly laboured and it was as surprising as it was impressive that he had remained so silent when they entered with such trouble breathing. His skin was as pale as a white sheet and was damp with a sweat colder than ice. Red flecks were visible on his chin and around his mouth. The mouth itself had taken an unearthly shade of light blue that seemed to be becoming darker by the second. Despite the horror of his condition, a rare and warming smile sat upon his face.

"It's okay," assured Superman, taking a step forward, gesturing as though to place his hand on the battered creature's shoulder, "Gordon's on his way and he's got a whole fleet of ambulances."

The smile widened slightly, as though, for the first time in a very long time, he was genuinely happy, genuinely relieved. Though, this sudden smile vanished at about the same time his eyes widened. Bending over, he violently coughed and heaved. It sounded as though he were coughing up the bloody collapsed lung in an attempt to be rid of it, but all that was expelled from his mouth was blood. Frothy flecks of it speckled his mouth and chin, painting his lips a luscious, vibrant red. The majority of it fell to the floor where it formed a tiny puddle.

"Batman!" cried out J'onn, in synchrony with the Green Lantern. They moved forward, concerned, standing nearly shoulder to shoulder with Superman. Superman had moved his hands away, scared and confused at his lack of knowledge with what to do.

"I'm fine," grunted Batman, painting the floor red with blood that had mixed sloppily with the saliva in his mouth, "Give me a second."

They obeyed, backing off and allowing him more space. The logic in their brain was screaming at them that their friend was clearly downplaying the seriousness of the situation but they found themselves, somehow, still believing that he was okay, that it was just a flesh wound. They watched him pant and splutter out more blood. He looked up briefly, his eyes suddenly having lost their dull sheen. They glistened with an emotion they could just barely trace as unconditional relief, shimmering once more like the strong, unmovable seas they were used to seeing. The smile seemed to be falling but, with an effort, it rose once more, strangely natural on the Bat's obscured face.

He collapsed. Hitting the floor at a speed that seemed faster than lightning. His body seemed to turn limp. His face was lying in the puddle he had created seconds earlier. The League leapt over to his aid. They were ashamed and surprised they didn't react _whilst _he was falling, but they dismissed the feeling for the moments when they were trying to establish what was wrong with him. They, as a group, rolled him onto his back. He made no effort to conceal the pain the movement was caused. An outcry, unfamiliar to most of them, roared from his throat. A grunt and grimace followed once he lay on his back.

"You're _not _fine," spat Diana venomously, annoyed that he would dare lie to her, "Don't even try to pretend you are."

A slight laugh became drowned beneath a whine as his stomach disagreed violently with the expression of cheerfulness. His eyes scrunched up, attempting to block out the pain but he quickly gave up and stared at the team. They were clearly unhappy with him, but also happy to see him alive, though, by no stretch of the imagination, well. Sighing, and immediately grimacing, he noticed how similar they were to Alfred in their parenting nature. Just like overprotective parents. A smile fell upon his face once again.

"How can you smile?" asked Hawk Girl, curious and annoyed by his expression.

"Don't ask," snapped Bruce, as otherwise the sentence would have been unspeakable, "You won't see it again."

"There's the Bats I know!" cried out the Flash, taking the retort as a positive sign, "I was getting worried there."

"Hmph." retorted the Batman, immediately unleashing a bitter grumble of pain as the short movement caused by the 'hmphing' shook his broken ribs.

"The ambulance will be here soon," explained the Green Lantern, "It'll be fine."

"No ambulances," snapped Bruce aggressively and assertively, a frown furrowing beneath his mask. The majority of the League knelt beside him with only J'onn maintaining his distance. Batman's hand, which was covered in sticky, bloody mess, shot up from his side and grasped the nearest wrist it could locate. Though immediately concerned with the matter at hand, the Green Lantern later observed how the blood on his wrist had dried, "No ambulances."

"You need medical help!" shouted Superman arguably.

"Alfred's had experience," stated the battered Bat, "_Plenty_."

"No," roared Wonder Woman, "You need proper medical attention!"

"Listen," stated Batman, audibly pained, "If I get taken to a hospital, they'll…" a brief grunt interrupted his flow, "Record my injuries, so, when…" a rolling rumble ruptured the sentence, "Bruce Wayne turns up at work, somebody will click…" a short, snappy shout ordered the sentence cut short as the effort of talking disrupted his barely functioning body severely, "Besides, Gotham Hospitals are _not _particularly safe."

"He has a point." agreed J'onn, who had remained out of the conversation up to that point for the very reason that he didn't like being shouted at.

"We can't get him back without moving him!" retorted Superman.

"My spine's fine." stated Batman nonchalantly as though that were the only major concern with regards to moving him a large distance through freezing morning winds.

"I can make a stretcher with my ring," explained the Green Lantern, whose ring seemed to glisten excitedly with the promise of being used, "It's possible."

Superman, the de facto leader of the group (whilst Batman was incapacitated anyway), seemed pained by the decision. His shimmering blue eyes fell upon Bruce's seeking advice from the one person who was the most biased in said situation. The look in Bruce's eyes made it clear as daylight what should be done. Sighing and getting to his feet, Superman nodded. Creating the stretched and raising it had not been the problem, exiting the building had not caused any issues either. It was as they soared through the sky that the concerns and nuisances became apparent.

The emergency services had pulled up to the building as they left it and Gordon's cries of concern were audible even as the wind howled loudly past their ears. Diana, who was flying with Hawk Girl either side of the makeshift stretched, observed a twinge appear on Bruce's face. It was as if he felt guilty for making the Police Commissioner worry. The acknowledgement of guilt brought a small smile to her face, at least he knew that he had been causing some serious problems for a lot of people.

Following the police like vultures, the media helicopters suddenly spotted the superhero convoy and latched onto it with a ravenous curiosity. They flew above, below, to the side, swinging overhead in an attempt to get footage. It was J'onn who, without any prompting, destroyed the footage and delivered a harsh but fair warning. Despite the warning, the League was forced to waste ten minutes trying to lose the determined swarm and all the while, Batman's condition was worsening.

The open wounds on Batman's body sounded their discontent through foghorns as the brisk morning winds tore at them. That, and the speed, caused flecks of blood to be lifted away from the Bat's armour, carried into the distance delicately like snow. The pain was visible on Batman's face and so was the sound. Grunts and bitter outcries echoed slightly in the silences where they had temporarily shook off the hellish helicopters. Though placing a protective cover over the stretcher, unintentionally making it resemble a closed coffin, the hero's condition carried on declining.

Once the helicopters had been left floating in the middle of Gotham in a collectively confused manner, the League made their way to the Cave's entrance. Thankfully, their entrance into the cave was met with a miniature hospital's worth of medical equipment and a very experienced and concerned looking Alfred. There was a table prepared, away from the terminal in a separate area of the Cave. Once placed on the table, Bruce had a mask placed over his mouth. It took very little time to send him to the realms of unconsciousness but before it did, the hero managed to deliver a small line.

"Thank you."

***

The doors flew open, swinging violently until they came into contact with the wall to which their hinges were attached. A trio of unimpressed figures stormed into the hall, soaked through from a torrential downpour that had unleashed itself upon the city of Gotham little over an hour earlier. Oddly not hearing their approach in a taxi, the League immediately heard the doors and leapt into action, storming the hall with an aggressively defensive demeanour.

"WHERE IS HE?!" screamed the tallest of the three, whose black mop of hair stuck to his forehead and was thoroughly soaked through, "WHERE?!"

"Who are you?" shouted Superman angrily, proceeding down the main staircase in a confident and tensed swagger. His muscles seemed to bulge slightly, as though expecting the confrontation to be violent, "What are you doing here?"

"Tell me where that ar-"

"Dick!" snapped one of the figures, whom was clearly wheel-chair bound and whose lively red hair had somehow survived the heavy rainfall and remained dry, "Cut it out!"

"It's the Justice League!" exclaimed the shorter of the two standing figures, "Well, some of them."

"Identify yourselves!" roared the Green Lantern threateningly from the balcony, his ring glistening green just as intent on defending against any threat the trio could pose.

"Dick Grayson," stated the loudest of the three, pointing to his own chest before signalling to the two figures on his right and identifying them as, "Barbara Gordon and Tim Drake."

For all of the seriousness of the situation, the League froze somewhat comically. The names that had just been declared were strikingly familiar but for some reason the significance of them hid in the depths of their brains. They all passed looks, in a tried but failed attempt to be subtle, and frowned in a confused and bemused expression. The trio seemed fairly amused by it, as though the League's ignorance was both a source of humour and concern. Dick took a step forward, as Barbara rolled forwards and Tim closed the two almighty doors so as to keep the harsh mid-morning weather out.

"Nightwing," explained Dick, once again pointing at himself, "Oracle, Robin."

An unintentionally simultaneous choral sigh of 'oh's rang out within the hall, echoing in the enormously vast space. The trio found it highly amusing and the youngest struggled to contain laughter. They knew everything about the League, so it was just an embarrassment that the League didn't know much about them. Though, at the back of their minds, it did raise concerns about whether their mentor ever spoke about them at all – not that it would have been surprising if he didn't.

"Where have you three been?" asked Diana, whose voice was toned in such a way as to be both critical and curious as to their distinct absence during the search.

"Wild goose chase," stated Dick angrily, "To _Africa_."

"The only reason we're here now is because Barb got suspicious and hacked the computer," explained Tim, brushing off some of the raindrops that had not yet soaked into his hooded coat, "_Wasn't _fun."

"Wait, wait," said the Flash, interrupting the conversation and gesturing with his hands as though it would help him work through the vast amount of confusion that was clouding his brain, "He didn't tell you?"

"No." they replied collectively.

There was a slight pause. There was an undeniable level of shock and surprise rolling beneath the silence but there was also a level of understanding. The understanding crossed everyone's mind because, after all, the man who had told them nothing was the infamously mysterious _Batman_. Many, many nouns fell into the minds of those present in the hall with regards to Bruce's somewhat stupid, or seemingly stupid, behaviour.

"Idiot." snapped Diana.

There was silent but consensual agreement amongst the congregation gathered in the hall. Having broken the ice somewhat with their collective acknowledgement of Batman's occasionally 'arsehole-ish' behaviour, the group walked into the room in which the League had been waiting before the gigantic doors swung open. It was the room with the grand piano and bookshelves, the room with the grandfather clock was the other side of the building. All had found seats except Flash, who seemed to have an instinctive aversion to them, and J'onn who found standing to be, somehow, more productive.

"So where is the great idiot now?" asked Barbara with a slight smile lifting her cheek playfully, "Not lounging around in bed watching rubbish, I trust."

"Not sure," replied Superman truthfully, "He's down in the Cave with Alfred, we're waiting for news."

"I'm surprised he managed to keep it from you in the first place," stated Green Lantern, probing for information, "I thought you guys were the best."

"Bruce has his ways." stated Dick simply.

"And he is _very _good at lying," added Tim, "He hasn't _once_ taken me to the circus."

"He promised to take you to the circus?" asked Hawk Girl, amazed that Bruce even knew what those fun things were, let alone that they had a name and that you went there to have fun.

"On three separate occasions." replied Tim, holding up three fingers just in case the number three wasn't significant enough for them to remember it.

"Now that's just cruel." stated the Green Lantern.

"He has been known to drop people from heights that break legs," stated Barbara simply, "And even then, compared to some of the psychos that's pretty minor."

"Well," declared Superman, changing the subject with a distinctly faked and uncomfortable smile trying to hide the concern, anxiousness and worry that was clearly eating away at his soul with the vigour of a ravenous lion, "It's nice to put names to some of those faces, being as we've heard so much about you, and had so much help from you."

"Your help with the database was invaluable," complimented J'onn with a distinctively recognisable tone of admiration, "You are truly worthy of your name, Oracle."

Barbara blushed noticeably, though seemed to take the compliment to heart. Appreciation flourished on her face. Her help with the database in the Watchtower had been outstanding: they had virtually all of the information known to Mankind regarding the things necessary to the heroes. In fact, it was Batman who first recommended her and enlisted her aid. Despite a smile sitting upon her face, a sense of surprise seemed transfixed there as one of the earlier statements sank in.

"Bruce talks about us?" asked Tim, stealing the question from the voice box of one of his predecessors, "Really?"

"_When _we can actually _get _him to talk," stated Diana with a slight smile sitting gracefully on the fine contours of her seemingly delicate and fragile face, "Yeah."

The trio exchanged a look. They all wore the same expression of surprise, as though they honestly couldn't imagine their mentor, who was fairly moody and miserable at the best of times, talking about them; let alone doing so in a positive way. Though, for all the bemusement, beneath their expressions was an understanding. Bruce, to the boys particularly, was a father figure and it seemed increasingly clear that he saw them as his children, despite biology and genetics declaring otherwise. Smiles sat upon their features when they looked back towards the League, the members of which were staring at them fondly.

"What sort of things does he say?" asked Dick, curiosity laced in his voice with about as much subtly as America displays its feelings of nationalist pride.

The Green Lantern was opening his mouth to begin the bits and pieces he had heard as a figure emerged from the darkness that were the shadows of the bookcase. Everyone within the room stared into the blackness with eyes as sharp and penetrating as those of an analyst. Alfred emerged, his sterile apron and gloves sitting within a bright yellow bag. The yellow bag was far from promising as it was lined inside with a thick and visible layer of red which failed to hide the variety of surgical equipment and foreign bodies that had been used.

Alfred, for all of his efforts, appeared visibly shaken. It was clear he'd seen things like it before, but, from the expression on his face, it still pained him. He was ever so slightly pale, with tiny dried streams of sweat visible on his suddenly very tired face. His eyes, usually sparkling with a youthful and hidden energetic wit, had become glazed by emotional pain and significant lethargy. It was so clear, in fact, that he was forcibly placed into a chair and brought a very pathetic, but well intended, cup of what he could only assume was a failed attempt at tea.

"Thank you."

"How is he?" asked Dick, leaning forwards in his seat, hands clasped nervously.

"Alive," began Alfred, sighing as though relieving his chest of a tonne weight that had been holding it down, "And stable, he'll be on a drain for at least four days though."

"A drain?" asked the Flash, not sure what the term was referring to, it being such a broad description.

"The treatment for pneumothorax or a 'collapsed lung' usually involves draining the liquids from the collapsed lung," stated the Oracle simply, "If there _are_ liquids."

"Four days?!" asked Diana, "That seems like a long time."

"It's the average," assured Alfred, "He should be alright."

"What about after it's drained?" asked Superman, "What about his lung then?"

"It'll re-inflate and heal up the hole," replied Alfred, adding slightly less confidently, "Hopefully."

"Hopefully!?" cried out at least two League members in peculiarly perfect synchrony.

"There's always the chance of complications." stated the Green Lantern simply and logically.

"And if everything's okay?" asked Tim.

"He'll be back to normal in no time," declared Alfred, somewhat cheerfully, "Though, it'd probably best that he avoids scuba-diving."

"Somehow," stated Superman, "I don't think the threat of a collapsing lung would stop him if he really wanted to."

"I don't think it would stop him," corrected Dick, "If he just felt like doing it on a whim."

**A/N: Okay, a couple of important notes for you to read:**

**After thinking about what **AZ-woodbomb **said, I decided I'd do it a bit later in Batman's career (but before Damian because I have not read **_**anything**_** with him in it and have no idea where to start) so that's why Dick, Barbara and Tim are there.**

**The thing about America's nationalist pride being not subtle is not meant to be offensive and it's pretty hard to say that it isn't, it just so is. When you compare it to places like England anyway…**

**Didn't think this chapter would be as big as it is so I'm having to split it like I did the last one. **

**Let me know what you think please.**


	17. Le Cauchemar Finit Part II

Coalition

Chapter Fifteen: Le cauchemar finit

'The truest wisdom is a resolute determination' Napoleon Bonaparte

Part Two

Two delicate coughs rang out. The sound echoed around the cave, dancing in the air like butterflies. The bats shuffled and silently squealed, made uncomfortable by the noise. The coughs were more like half-hearted attempts and resembled throaty sighs more than that which they were meant to be. A scuffle was audible as the rustle of sheets sounded throughout the cavernous, dark room. Dim lights lit several, specifically chosen areas, but otherwise, darkness prevailed.

Machinery, coldly glistening with its metallic shimmer as the dimmed lights playfully bounced off it, lit up vibrantly, as though awaking from hibernation. Lighting with a renewed life, the machines displayed blue technological blurs that were indistinguishable to the two recently opened blue eyes that were sticky with sleep. Beeping twice, the machines' collective alarm sounded silently within the building situated above the Cave.

Arching his neck, despite seeing through eyes awash with a distinct lack of focus, small receptors and electrodes could be seen. They clung to his chest with desperation, determined to protect him from whatever potential harm could befall him whilst he slept. Though yearning to rip them off and be free of the dratted things, he knew better and lay his head back down onto the soft white pillow that hugged it with a caring fondness he had not felt for days.

Allowing himself to relax, he observed that a dull pain still throbbed violently at the back of his brain. He'd obtained a ridiculous number of injuries. It was amateurish. Sighing, a slight twinge struck the four broken ribs that he had received. These twinges caused a visible grimace and finally, his entire face could be seen reacting. Mouth tightening, pursing, his cheeks lifted slightly, aiding the pressure placed on his eyes that caused them to close. The frown placed downwards force, ordering both of his eyes into a visible suppression associated with pain.

The frown faded as the pain dimly returned to its constant yet ebbing current that flowed through the back of his mind. He could hear, from experience and years of it, the lift shrieking slightly, metal chains clanging, as it slid down the shaft towards the Cave. It came to a halt, squeaking as it did, reminding him that he had to oil it at some point. Expecting the footsteps to emulate from the lift, his face failed to hide his surprise when footsteps sounded from the entrance he knew to be behind the grandfather clock.

They moved with noise and speed that he could, from vast experience, identify as the sound of a concerned Alfred. His shoes emitted a distinctive 'klopping' sound as they padded the floor of the cave and the squeak of the shoes' leather was ever so distinctive to Bruce's mind. There was also the pace. Alfred's normal pace mimicked with an almost inhuman precision, the beat of his heart, following a beat that could roughly be described as 1-2-1-2. However, when Alfred was concerned, the beat became slightly irregular, an extra third step being placed in, and the butler's strides became shorter when he felt the need for speed.

"Master Wayne?!" cried out the familiar English accent, vibrant and energetic with a concern that hadn't been heard for little over two years, "Master Bruce!?"

The concerned, sauntering klopping quickly transformed into an unfamiliar panicked, sprint. He'd never known Alfred run. _Ever_. He'd figured it was a mostly English sentiment, which explained why they were so notoriously poor when it came to the hundred metre sprint at Olympic events. There was a brief pause in between the sound of one shoe slapping the floor violently before the second one hit the ground with far more weight and noise than the first. It was as though Alfred had _jumped _down the three steps that led to the area in which his patient lay.

Thus, surprise was evident upon the face of Bruce Wayne, when Alfred's familiar face peered into view. Alfred was breathing with a slight irregularity, in that he'd just been running and his breath was audible; most times it seemed to be completely undetectable to the human ear. Concern glistened with sparkling vigour in the two bright orbs that stared down at Bruce. The hair atop Alfred's head was slightly un-kept, as though the man had been running his hand through it on an abnormally frequent basis. Small, barely visible beads of sweat clung to his forehead, attempting to hide in the shadow of his hair.

"Alfred?" queried Bruce, voice pure and clear. It was a pleasant feeling. There was no longer the blood coating his throat and mouth. For the first time since his capture, he could speak without forcefully lowering his voice to a range that seemed to naturally rumble like thunder. It was nice to hear his own, normal voice again. The one that sounded, all the time, in his mind as his thoughts raced across it. His true voice seemed, for all its distinctive masculinity, to hum vibrantly with life. It made him smile almost as much as seeing Alfred did.

"Oh," stated Alfred with an audible sigh of relief, "You're awake, Master Bruce."

"Unfortunately." groaned Bruce, as he shimmied up the bed, so his shoulders rested on the pillow. His body dully rumbled with pain as he did so but it didn't stop him from placing himself in a position to better communicate with his butler.

"There's plenty of morphine," began Alfred, eyes suddenly alight with concern, "If you-"

"No," assured Bruce, raising a hand to signal the negative, "I need to feel this."

"Oh, of course," sighed Alfred, eyes rolling with iconic scepticism, "How could I have forgotten? Did you know I read an article recently about dangerous jobs increasing one's vulnerability to psychological conditions such as masochism?"

"They'll publish anything in newspapers these days," retorted Bruce, playing along with the familiar game, "How long was I out?"

"Four days," replied Alfred, "I think that's a new personal best."

"Only four days?" asked Bruce, "Thought it'd be worse than that."

"Worse than four days, Sir?" teased Alfred, "You'll just have to try harder next time."

"It's good to see you, Alfred," stated Bruce Wayne, removing his lively blue eyes from those of his closest ally and turning them to the bats, which hung from the ceiling, and that were visible through the clear plastic that hung over the area protectively, "It's good to see you again."

"Likewise," assured Alfred, "I knew you'd come back."

"Really?" asked Bruce, whose sparkling blue orbs returned their contact to Alfred's, "I doubted it myself, to be honest."

"Yes," stated Alfred, "You'll always come back. As long as you want to, there's nothing in this Universe that can stop you."

"Hmm," said Bruce, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, "It's good to see you."

"So you keep telling me," smiled Alfred, "I'll be back in a minute, I'm going to fetch my tea."

Closing his eyes and nodding slightly to indicate his acknowledgement, Bruce managed to force himself into a sitting position as Alfred walked away. From his position, he could locate and press the button that raised the bed in such a way as to allow for him to lean whilst sitting up. The pillow sat comfortably between his back and the bed as he leant against the its frame. He sighed slightly, noticing that the pain seemed dimmer.

He had pulled his two arms free of the gleaming white sheets, where they sat the sheets awaiting examination. It didn't take long. His blue eyes were eager to see the extent of his injuries in their recovering state. His arms were virtually plastered in white strips with pinkish, pale, clammy skin visible in areas where bandages had not been employed to cover cuts. He could feel bruising and purplish-blue-black blots decorated the majority of his body, which he couldn't actually see because of the mummified appearance the bandages had caused him to take.

Bandages covered the two stab wounds he had received off Stirk and they, for all of their clean whiteness, were dulled by a brownish hue. His thighs, though only able to see them when he lifted the sheets, were completely bandaged. Being as it was Alfred who had treated him, he'd have expected to be in pyjamas but the butler was clearly concerned about the wounds and so wished to maintain visibility of them. Therefore, a pair of boxers sufficed for clothing beyond bandages and bed linen. Sighing, he relaxed his body, the Cave's coolness causing a ripple of goosebumps to crawl along his arms.

The silence was interrupted by whispering that wisped silently within the peripheries of his hearing. The bats, able to hear the sounds clearly, twittered and twisted anxiously, disliking any sort of noise beyond the cascading of the waterfall and quiet technological churns of the electronical gadgetry. Looking to the source of the sounds, which proved particularly difficult due to the nature of the Cave, a slight pressure forced a frown onto his face. The whispers were familiar, they had specific and audible twinges that distinguished them from each other and that he could recognise.

"I can hear you," shouted Bruce, his voice, in its natural state, echoing powerfully around the Cave with an authority that was not reserved solely for Batman, "You may as well come over here."

Like a collection of naughty children who'd just been told off by an angry guardian, the large group strolled into the Cave from the lift entrance. Frowning with a distinctly playful expression and a smug smile lifting his cheeks, Bruce watched them. Their eyes avoided his for a couple of seconds before all of their bright eyes fell upon him with an emotional weight that figuratively hit him like a bag of bricks. Those who were able, hovered over as though the floor wasn't quite exciting enough. Flash flew over in his normal blurry way and the humans of the group decided to walk, aiding Barbara down the steps by carrying her wheelchair.

There was a mixture of emotions from the group. It was difficult to tell whether he was going to be slapped, lectured and criticised or whether he was going to be hugged and mothered. Though, he observed sceptically with a quickly falling optimism, Dick was there so the chances for the latter had automatically fallen quite drastically. Dick didn't hate him by any stretch of the word but there was certainly an elevated level of dislike spiking from him aggressively. Psychopaths and sociopaths, Batman could deal with. Angry friends? Not so much.

"How are you feeling?" asked Barbara.

_Thank you! _declared Bruce mentally. Barbara, to his knowledge, was far more patient and several degrees less violent than some of those present. If she was the one starting the conversation, at least he couldn't be held responsible for it going off the rails. It was as if she knew that there would be some arguing and decided to start the mood in a relatively positive light, which, given her vast intellect, he was sure not to put past her.

"Okay," he began, before reflectively adding, "Surprisingly."

A silence fell upon the room. It was as though no one knew who should start off the argument or whether they should at all. It was more of an impasse than a silence. There was little else, in their eyes, to talk about other than Batman's vast stupidity in his actions regarding the coalition. Oddly, this silence persisted until Alfred returned with his cup of tea to break it. Once it had been broken, so had the patience and, figuratively speaking, all hell broke loose.

"Glad to see you found your way in," began Alfred, referring to the nine-strong group of people, "I thought I may have to provide maps."

"Maps!" shouted Hawk Girl, as though it were some sort of expletive, "Now that was a stupid idea!"

Bruce frowned. He knew where this was going. It wasn't exactly a common occurrence, mostly because they could never pin him down long enough to manage it, but occasionally, perhaps less regularly than once every blue moon, something like this happened. An international law, though how that many countries came to a consensus in the first place is somewhat of a miracle, dictated that the League required a performance review every so often and it was at these meetings that things like this would come up. At least, it would come up at some point in the meeting. Sometimes, other things would take priority but it always fed back to this. He sighed. No where to run this time.

"Oh the entire thing," snapped Diana, "Was a stupid idea!" she leant in, suddenly within deafening distance and shouted, "What were you thinking?!"

He'd learnt a while back that there was absolutely no point explaining until they'd calmed down. Though, most of the time, he'd left the room by that point so there was no point explaining to them at all. All he could do was appear nonchalant and wait until they'd finished fuming. He passed a look to Alfred who gazed back unsympathetically; the message in his eyes clear, 'Well, you _do_ deserve it, Sir.' Even Tim, Dick and Barbara seemed to be completely in agreement. They'd probably join in at some point as well.

"I don't think he was thinking!" snapped Superman.

His mouth opened in defence before closing again.

"It was a _coalition,_" began J'onn, "You _knew _there'd be more than one of them."

"Not only did you not _call in _back up," reproached the Green Lantern, "You actually _sent _it away!"

"To AFRICA!" added the Flash.

At this point, he disliked them. _Severely._

"I've looked over your reconnaissance files," explained Barbara, ever the computer-hacking expert, "You knew Bane and Killer Croc would be there, together."

"You struggle to take down one of them _on their own_," spat Dick, gesturing wildly with his arms to signal just how totally mad his mentor's seemingly selfish behaviour had made him, "Then, you must have known that the Joker would be involved. That's _three _of the Majors. On top of that, you must have guessed that the Scarecrow would be there."

"From what I found," continued Barbara, "You also knew for a fact that Zsasz was with them. And we _know_ how much you hate Zsasz."

"Five of the Majors," stated Tim, a furrowed brow contorting his face, "Five. And you still sent us away."

He opened his mouth, feeling he should, needing to defend himself, to explain.

"Then this bomb fiasco!" shouted Superman, whose voice, when raised, which was a rare occurrence in itself, was surprisingly scary, considering he was meant to be the Boy Scout of the League, "What were you playing at?"

"If you'd have given us the locations straight off," explained the Green Lantern, "We could have disarmed _all _of them."

"_I _could have disarmed all of them," added the Flash, "On my own in a minute flat."

"You could have gotten yourself killed." stated Diana.

"What if we hadn't have found the clues in time?" snapped Hawk Girl.

"Gotham, and you, would have been obliterated." stated J'onn coldly.

He needed to explain to them but, pausing he turned away.

"What were you thinking?" asked Superman, "All of the resources, the aide, the friends at your disposal and you went in there alone? Seriously, what was going through your head?"

He wasn't given time to formulate the answer.

"Why did you send us away?" asked Tim, sounding genuinely wounded.

"Did you think we needed protection!?" snapped Dick angrily, "That we couldn't handle a couple of the Majors we've spent years fighting alongside you?! The three of us would have stood a better chance!"

"You could have let us help," added Barbara, "You could have given us boundaries, told us not to pass a line but you could have let us help."

A silence swiftly fell and he took this opportunity to speak, though what little good that did would never become apparent, "You're beginning to repeat yourselves."

"Do you know why?" snapped Diana, "Because the same question is coming up, again and again!"

"It's so glaringly obvious!" snapped the Green Lantern.

"After all we've done," explained the Flash, "After all we've _ever_ done."

"And you still don't trust us." stated Hawk Girl.

"No," began Bruce, defending the shattered, broken and crumbling remains of an argument, "It's not… I…"

"You never change," stated Dick, a defeated smile on his face, "Do you?"

"Just," snapped Bruce, frustrated by their inability to just hear him out, "Listen."

"What's the point?" asked Flash, "It's not as if you'd tell us the truth."

"LISTEN!" roared Batman.

His voice thundered throughout the cave as though it were the rumbling destructive force of nature itself. The bats leapt from their perches and fluttered about wildly, terrified by the forceful sound that had echoed around their home. His eyes had closed from the effort of shouting and his body was quickly overcome by an exhaustion and pain that had been kept away only by distraction. It was all too eager to return and remind him of the cost of what he had done.

He opened his eyes to regret. It was dim and well hidden beneath a façade of anger and woundedness that they were intent on playing up until he told them the truth. They seemed to recognise that perhaps it wasn't the best time to be bringing it up. Though, at the same time, they realised that it was probably the only chance they'd get to have some straight answers out of him. The entire group, for all of their determined anger, seemed surprised by the strength of the shout which effortlessly rivalled that of Superman.

"Please," he continued at a whisper, "It was never about trust. It was never about protecting you. You're overcomplicating the whole thing, as usual," he sighed slightly and raised his voice, ordering the computer, "Open designated file," he paused briefly, his memory straining under his condition, "20241004129."

The computer signalled its acknowledgement and blinkered itself on with a flash of distinctly blue light. It shimmered and glistened brightly. The League and Bat Family turned to Bruce, as though needing permission to investigate the file that had been opened up by the computer. They walked over, pausing only for the Green Lantern to create a ramp for Barbara's wheelchair, which she had yet to install jet rockets on. Only Alfred didn't join them, he had already seen the file. It was, in fact, Bruce who had shown it to him before he left.

"Sir," began Alfred, eyes virtually bleeding with concern, "Please don't."

"Don't worry," responded Bruce, swinging his screaming legs from under the sheets, allowing them to dangle from the side. He lifted himself from the bed and his legs immediately buckled under the weight. Grasping the bed for support, he pulled himself to his feet and straightened. Looking to Alfred, whose eyes had drifted to a bright red patch that had stained the bandages on his patient's legs, Bruce smiled slightly, "This time, I plan on using my resources."

***

"Bats is alive!?"

"Assumedly," came the response which was somewhat calmer than the hysterical voice that had posed the question, "The League was seen carrying him off somewhere."

"…" paused the Clown, "Oh well, there's always next time."

Four of the escapees had moved. They had escaped and found there way to a room in a high rise building. It was a very affluent high rise so there had been no vacancies. That was, until they _made _some vacancies. It was an enormous flat, which occupied half of the entire floor. It gazed out onto the mid-morning sunlight that bathed the city. The Joker had raided the fridge and made his way about wrecking the flat for no reason other than it was something to occupy his mind for a few short minutes before boredom replaced it.

The Scarecrow was standing beside the window, his body limp as his namesake. It was as though he would fall over if so much as pushed. A frown fell across his face, though the mask obscured it. He knew his enemy was alive. Batman had an unpleasing inability to die. No matter how many times he was taken to the edge and placed in front of Death's door, he always managed to squirm himself away. That, and he had a determination that was simply inhuman.

"We can't assume he survived," stated another, "They were intent on keeping him away from the helicopters."

"Yeah but Batsy hates the tv anyway," replied the Joker, voice cackling wildly, "I hoped he might have just died slowly. Stupid spandex team. If they hadn't have shown up, he'd probably be dead!"

"I doubt it," replied the Scarecrow, staring out of the window absentmindedly, "It would take more than that to kill him."

"More than severe blood loss, a collapsed lung and enough bullets to make a necklace in his legs?" queried Poison Ivy, "He _is _human."

"I wonder." stated the Scarecrow.

"Meh," declared the Joker, "Fact is: we need another plan."

"What'll we do this time," asked Harley, voice brimming with childish excitement, "Mistah-J?"

The Scarecrow turned around briefly. The two garish figures lit up the room with a vibrancy that was simply sickening. It was also astounding that the stupid girl had failed to realise the Joker's intentions. She used to be a psychiatrist. Now it was as if she could barely analyse simple body language. She pressed herself against him, and he barely looked at her, seeing her as an object, rather than a human. The two were as deluded as each other.

"I'm not sure, Harley," began the Joker, "Hey, Crow-Face! Is there a new Mayor?"

"Yeah," responded the God of Fear, "Elected him last week. Don't you watch the news?"

"I watch the cartoons," responded the Clown coldly, "I think we should pay him a visit, don't you?"

The Scarecrow and Poison Ivy exchanged glances. The two shrugged consensually. It wasn't as if they had anything better to be doing. Harley and Joker led the way, Harley skipping slightly ahead of the Joker carrying his new weaponry. The two less insane, if that could be said about them at all, inmates followed. Hopefully, they thought, Batman would show up. Somehow, everything was just a whole lot more interesting when he was around.

***

"Whoa." stated the Flash, speaking the words that no one else could as their mouths had been frozen in place by the revelation of the file Bruce had shown them. It suddenly made sense, why he had done so many seemingly incredibly stupid things that wasted time and effort. A part of each of them felt, to a degree, guilty for the telling off they had given him, but, by the same degree, this was the first time he had ever actually explained his decisions fully. Therefore, the telling off was for all of the other occasions.

"There wasn't anything I could do," echoed Bruce's voice which seemed to become louder, as though he were approaching them, "I would have if I could."

At that point, no one turned around. If they had, they would not have been impressed but for the time being, Bruce's increasingly close voice seemed perfectly normal. They were entranced by the information on the screen. Whilst they still had questions, the file certainly answered some of them. It would be down to Bruce to give them the answers the file couldn't. Whilst normally this might have been a difficult task, his bed-confining injuries made conversation a whole lot easier. Or so they thought.

"So…" began the Flash, struggling to understand what he'd just seen, "You knew everything from the start?"

"You knew all of them, that there were five bombs and you still didn't call us?" snapped Superman, frustrated.

"You've read the file," spat Bruce, "There was no time!"

"Time enough to make clues and maps and put them around the city." retorted Hawk Girl.

"No," stated Bruce simply, "I'd made those clues years ago, and the maps. All I had to do was put them in place and put the locations on the last clues."

"What about the recordings?" asked J'onn.

"Did them as soon as I got the message," replied Bruce, "I had half an hour, enough time to put the clues around and record them but not enough for anything else."

"What about sending us on a wild goose chase?" snapped Dick angrily, "To Africa?"

"Automated system," was the response, "Whenever I've notified the computer that I'm walking into a trap, if I don't respond to a signal from the Cave's computer after twenty four hours, it activates. It sends you three a message and books you flights."

"Why though?" asked Tim, "We could have helped!"

"No," stated Bruce almost coldly, "There were fourteen of them, even with the three of you, that wouldn't have been enough."

"So you were enough?!" asked the Green Lantern, questioning the logic of his colleague.

"No. In fact, that's the very reason the system was created."

"I don't understand." stated Diana, speaking for most people in the room.

"I didn't want to risk them finding me the way you did."

There was a pause. The League couldn't argue with that. It was perfectly logical for, what was essentially, a father to want to protect his – practically – children from seeing him in pain. As Flash mentally observed, Batman had been pretty beat up and the state of the room had been enough to dull even the League's reactions. Despite their ages and experience, seeing something like that would not have been beneficial to the Bat Family.

"Why didn't you notify Dad?" asked Barbara, still confused by that much.

"The Joker had given me half an hour to get to the location before he set off the bombs. I made it in the nick of time as it was, any longer and Gotham would have been wiped from the maps."

Distantly, speedy klopping padded the Cave's floor. The group didn't turn around as they assumed it was a sound that was supposed to be heard. It wasn't until the owner of the klopping ceased their noisy running and spoke that they thought something of it. Alfred had stopped once beside Bruce and panted slightly before recovering and crying out desperately words that he had been whispering repeatedly minutes earlier.

"Please! Master Bruce!" cried Alfred's voice, breaking intermittently as though he had been speaking for several minutes and was continuing despite knowing the pointlessness of the action, "I must insist that you lie back down. Your wounds!"

"Lie," began Superman, working out the implications of what Alfred had said, "Back down?"

The nine-strong group span around in almost perfect synchrony. They then proceeded to frown simultaneously. The women present then placed their hands on their hips. Superman and Dick, at the centre of the semi-circle of superheroes, sighed precisely at the same time, holding their hands and massaging their brow. Tim and the Flash smiled slightly and rolled their eyes, as though they were withholding some clever quip that they were just dying to let loose. Bruce observed that they would have made an excellent synchronised swimming team.

"What," began Dick with a distinctively disapproving frown upon his face, "_Are_ you doing?"

"Some of them escaped," explained Batman, "I'm going after them."

Moments like this reminded him why he always kept spares. The new, unused armour was mostly obscured by the long black fabric that draped over his shoulders neatly. Though not showing it, the armour sat uncomfortably over his bandaged body and his ribs immediately felt the effects of the pressure the body armour placed on them. For all of the protective benefits of the suit, he felt very vulnerable in it: no doubt his mind telling him that it had offered little protection just days earlier. Either way, the presence of his utility belt encouraged a flame of confidence in his heart to flourish.

He was carrying his cowl in his hands. Despite the terrifying and powerful presence that the suit evoked, the ever so slight pain and discomfort was clear in his blue eyes. He was trying to force himself into a familiar posture that his body simply did not wish to respond to. Thus, a slight limp seemed present and, though his eyes glistened with strength and determination, his body followed them with about as much enthusiasm as a teenager. Alfred, recognising this, stood behind Batman with his hands away from his side and his legs bent; as though he were expecting his young friend to suddenly collapse in a heap on the floor.

"No you're not." snapped Diana simply.

"Yes," retorted Bruce, "I am."

"You can't go after them like that!" ordered Barbara, "You have a _just _healed collapsed lung!"

"You wanna go and collapse it again?" asked Dick, following Barbara's line of argument, "What'll you do if it collapses?"

Jokingly, Batman shrugged and responded with a slight smile on his face, "I'll use the other one."

"Not funny." hissed Superman, poking Batman in the chest with a finger.

"You're not going on your own." stated the Green Lantern simply.

"We won't let you." agreed hawk Girl.

Turning his back and obscuring the smile that had further raised his spirits, he put on his mask. Unlike the rest of the armour, which pressed uncomfortably against his recovering body, the cowl felt _right_. He tensed his muscles and relaxed, allowing his body to fill the suit as best it could in its bandaged condition. Sighing and flexing his fists, he adjusted his belt before walking towards the car which he had missed for the few days he had been away from it. He paused before getting in, turned around and frowned slightly, faking confusion.

"Aren't you coming?"

The League smiled. They followed him as the car revved powerfully and exploded through the waterfall that obscured one of the Cave's many entrances. The Bat Family remained in the Cave, somewhat annoyed and confused by events. Tim frowned and folded his arms, "I can't believe he didn't wait for me."

"Tough luck, Tim." stated Dick, placing a hand on his successor's shoulder.

"At least he asked for help this time." praised Barbara.

"He didn't," explained Alfred, "He asked if they were going with him."

"Surprise, surprise," sighed Dick, "He'll never change."

"Probably not." agreed Alfred.

The three of them had left the Cave at this point, returning to the Manor via the lift. It was Tim who was left alone in the dim blackness of the dank Cave. A frown still covered his young face, a genuine sense of being physically wounded bled from him. Sighing he declared to the bats above, "I can't _believe _he didn't wait for me."

Fin

**A/N: Hopefully this wraps everything up. If it doesn't, let me know so I can re-upload one that does. **

**And so, normality is restored as Batman (injured, yet again) purposely goes out of his way to find Arkham escapees even though he should be resting in bed.**

**I plan on doing another Batman FF but it won't be like this one, in that, it won't centre around Batman getting the living daylights beaten out of him. And the Justice League probably won't be in it. I'll see how it goes.**

**Thanks again to everyone who's been tracking, reading and reviewing this story. I find this hard to believe myself but this story is easily the size of a book (as it's over 50,000 words long). Blimey. That's a whole lot of words.**


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